/-*!?,.  .' 

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* 


• 


-  YALE  BOOK  OF 
AMERICAN  VERSE 


EDITED   BY 
THOMAS    R.   LOUNSBURY 


NEW  HAVEN:   YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON  :    HENRY   FROWDE 
OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MCMXII 


COPYRIGHT,  1912 
BY  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

First  printed  September,  1912.    1250  copies 
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Publishers  of  THE  YALE  BOOK  or  AMERICAN  VERSE. 

1912. 

MESSRS.  D.  APPLETOX  &  Co.,  New  York— W.  C.  Bryant:  The 
Battle-Field,  The  Conqueror's  Grave,  The  Crowded  Street,  The 
Death  of  the  Flowers,  A  Forest  Hymn,  The  Future  Life, 
June,  "Oh  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race,"  The  Past,  Planting  of 
the  Apple-Tree,  The  Snow-Shower,  Song  of  Marion's  Men, 
Thanatopsis,  To  a  Waterfowl;  Fitz-Greene  Halleck:  Alnwick 
Castle,  Burns,  Connecticut,  Marco  Bozzaris,  On  the  Death 
of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  Red  Jacket. 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER,  JR. — William  Allen  Butler:  The 
Incognita  of  Raphael,  Nothing  to  Wear. 

MRS.  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS — George  William  Curtis:  Egyp 
tian  Serenade,  O  Listen  to  the  Sounding  Sea,  Spring  Song. 

MESSRS.  DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY,  New  York — Edgar  Allan  Poe: 
Annabel  Lee,  The  Bells,  The  Conqueror  Worm,  The  Haunted 
Palace,  The  Raven,  To  Helen,  To  One  in  Paradise.  (The 
Stedman-Woodberry  text  is  herein  used  through  the  courtesy 
of  Messrs.  Duffield  &  Company,  holders  of  the  copyright.) 

MESSRS.  FUNK  &  WAGNALLS  COMPAKY,  New  York — John 
Williamson  Palmer:  The  Fight  at  San  Jacinto,  Stonewall 
Jackson's  Way. 

MESSRS.  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIK  COMPANY,  Boston — Thomas  Bailey 
Aldrich:  Baby  Bell,  In  an  Atelier,  Nocturne,  On  an  Intaglio 
Head  of  Minerva,  On  Lynn  Terrace,  Palabras  Cariiiosas, 


[tm] 


251150 


COPYRIGHT  NOTICE 


Song  from  the  Persian;  Phoebe  Gary:  Alas!,  Nearer  Home; 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson:  Browning,  Brahma,  Concord  Hymn, 
Days,  Fable,  Heri,  Cras,  Hodie,  The  Humble  Bee,  Poet, 
The  Problem,  Rhodora,  Sacrifice,  Shakespeare,  To  Eva; 
William  Lloyd  Garrison:  Freedom  for  the  Mind;  Richard 
Watson  Gilder:  Ah,  Be  Not  False,  The  Heroic  Age,  Noel, 
Reform,  The  River  Inn,  Songs,  A  Woman's  Thought;  Francis 
Bret  Harte:  Chiquita,  Dow's  Flat,  "Jim,"  Plain  Language 
from  Truthful  James,  The  Society  upon  the  Stanislaus,  What 
the  Engines  Said;  John  Hay:  Hymn  of  the  Knights  Tem 
plars,  Jim  Bludso,  Mystery  of  Gilgal;  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes:  Ballad  of  the  Oysterman,  Chambered  Nautilus,  The 
Deacon's  Masterpiece,  The  Dilemma,  The  Last  Leaf,  Lexing 
ton,  The  Music  Grinders,  My  Aunt,  On  Lending  a  Punch- 
Bowl,  The  Parting  Word,  Philosopher  to  His  Love,  "Qui 
Vive,"  The  Star  and  the  Water-Lily,  To  the  Portrait  of  a 
Lady,  Under  the  Washington  Elm,  Cambridge,  The  Voice 
of  the  Loyal  North,  The  Voiceless;  Julia  Ward  Howe: 
Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic,  Our  Orders,  The  Summons; 
Lucy  Larcom:  Hannah  Binding  Shoes;  Henry  Wadsworth 
Longfellow:  The  Cumberland,  The  Day  is  Done,  Endymion, 
Excelsior,  Footsteps  of  Angels,  Maidenhood,  My  Lost  Youth, 
Nuremberg,  The  Psalm  of  Life,  Resignation,  Seaweed, 
Skeleton  in  Armor,  Song  of  the  Silent  Land,  The  Village 
Blacksmith,  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports;  James  Russell 
Lowell:  Anf  Wiedersehen,  The  Courtin',  Credidimus  Jovem 
Regnare,  Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemoration,  July 
21,  18(i5,  Palinode,  The  Petition,  The  Present  Crisis,  Song— 
"O  Moonlight  Deep  and  Tender,"  Telepathy,  The  Washers 
of  the  Shroud,  What  Mr.  Robinson  Thinks,  Without  and 
Within;  William  Vaughn  Moody:  Gloucester  Moors,  Ode  in 
Time  of  Hesitation;  Thomas  William  Parsons:  Her  Epitaph, 
Mary  Booth,  Obituary,  On  a  Bust  of  Dante,  Paradisi 
Gloria,  Saint  Peray;  John  Godfrey  Saxe:  Bereavement,  Early 
Rising,  Orpheus  and  Euryclice,  Polyphemus  and  Ulysses; 


viii 


COPYRIGHT  NOTICE 


Edward  Rowland  Sill:  The  Coup  de  Grace,  The  Fool's 
Prayer,  The  Lover's  Song,  Momentous  Words,  The  Open 
Window,  To  a  Maid  Demure;  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman: 
The  Ballad  of  Lager  Bier,  Edged  Tools,  Hypatia,  Kearny  at 
Seven  Pines,  Pan  in  Wall  Street,  Proven£al  Lovers,  Si 
Jeunesse  Savait!,  The  Undiscovered  Country,  World  Well 
Lost;  William  Wetmore  Story:  Black  Eyes,  Cleopatra,  In 
the  Rain,  L'Abbate,  Praxiteles  and  Phryne,  Snowdrop;  John 
Greenleaf  Whittier:  Barbara  Frietchie,  Barclay  of  Ury, 
Ichabod,  Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  O.  Torrey,  Maud  Muller, 
My  Playmate,  The  Old  Burying-Ground,  Proem  to  Poems  of 
1847,  Dedication  of  "In  War  Time,"  Randolph  of  Roanoke, 
The  Watchers,  What  the  Birds  Said. 

MITCHELL  KEXXERLEY,  New  York — Walt  Whitman:  O  Captain! 
My  Captain ! 

MESSRS.  J.  B.  LIPPIXCOTT  COMPAXY — Thomas  Buchanan  Read: 
The  Celestial  Army,  Sheridan's  Ride,  Some  Things  Love  Me. 

MESSRS.  LOTIIROP  LEE  &  SHEPARD  COMPANY,  Boston — Marc 
Cook:  Her  Opinion  of  the  Play. 

MESSRS.  CHARLES  SCRIBXER'S  Soxs,  New  York — Henry  Cuyler 
Bunner:  Atlantic  City,  Candor,  Chakey  Einstein,  The  Chap 
eron,  Da  Capo,  Feminine,  Just  a  Love-Letter,  She  Was  a 
Beauty,  The  Way  to  Arcady;  Eugene  Field:  The  Biblio 
maniac's  Prayer,  Dear  Old  London,  Dibden's  Ghost,  The 
Duel,  Grandma's  Prayer,  In  Amsterdam,  The  Little  Peach, 
Lydia  Dick,  Preference  Declared,  The  Tea-Gown;  Sydney 
Lanier:  Marshes  of  Glynn,  Song  of  the  Chattahoochee; 
Richard  Henry  Stoddard:  The  Flight  of  Youth,  Without 
and  Within,  A  Woman's  Poem. 

MESSRS.  SMALL  MAYXARD  &  COMPAXY,  IXCORPORATED,  Boston — 
Richard  Hovey:  At  the  End  of  the  Day,  Faith  and  Fate, 
Launa  Dee,  The  Sea  Gypsy,  Unmanifest  Destiny,  Voices  of 
Unseen  Spirits,  The  Wander-Lovers. 

MESSRS.  THE  JOHX  C.  WIXSTOX  COMPAXY,  Philadelphia — 
Charles  Fenno  Hoffman:  The  Mint  Julep,  Monterey. 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 

Aubrey  de  Vere  tells  us  of  three  conversations  he 
held  the  very  same  day  on  the  very  same  subject  with 
three  different  authors.  Two  of  them  were  men  of 
great  poetic  genius,  the  third  was  a  man  of  distinct 
poetic  talent.  The  topic  of  discussion  in  each  case 
was  the  poetry  of  Burns.  The  difference  of  opinion 
expressed  struck  him  as  remarkable.  The  first  with 
whom  he  talked  was  Tennyson.  "Read  the  exquisite 
songs  of  Burns,"  exclaimed  that  poet,  "in  shape  each 
of  them  has  the  perfection  of  the  berry ;  in  light  the 
radiance  of  the  dewdrop ;  you  forget  for  its  sake 
those  stupid  things,  his  serious  pieces." 

A  little  later  in  the  day  he  met  Wordsworth. 
Again  the  conversation  fell  on  Burns.  "Words 
worth,"  he  writes,  "praised  him  even  more  vehe 
mently  than  Tennyson  had  done,  as  the  great  genius 
who  had  brought  poetry  back  to  nature.  'Of  course,' 
he  said  in  conclusion,  'I  refer  to  his  serious  efforts, 
such  as  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night;  those  foolish 
little  amatory  songs  of  his  one  has  to  forget.'  '  On 
the  evening  of  this  same  day  he  chanced  to  fall  in 
with  Henry  Taylor.  Him  he  told  of  the  different 
views  expressed  by  the  two  poets.  The  author  of 
Philip  Van  Artevelde  disposed  of  them  both  very 


[*» 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


summarily.  "Burns'  exquisite  songs  and  Burns'  seri 
ous  efforts  are  to  me  alike  tedious  and  disagreeable 
reading,"  was  the  comment  he  made. 

The  story  is  somewhat  singular;  but  after  all  it 
is  much  more  singular  for  the  rapidity  with  which 
the  expression  of  these  varying  views  chanced  to  fol 
low  one  another  than  for  the  views  expressed.  The 
disparagement  of-  great  poetic  work  by  writers, 
themselves  of  great  poetic  power,  and  likewise  the 
extraordinary  praise  lavished  by  them  upon  very 
ordinary  verse,  are  both  significant  facts  which  can 
hardly  fail  to  arrest  at  times  the  attention  of  the 
student  of  literature.  The  history  of  letters,  in 
truth,  abounds  in  singular  judgments  which  men  of 
genius  have  passed  upon  the  productions  of  other 
men  of  genius.  It  is  often  hard  to  tell  which  is  the 
more  remarkable — the  mean  opinion  which  these 
entertain  of  what  the  rest  of  the  world  has  approved, 
or  the  admiration  they  have  or  profess  to  have  for 
what  the  rest  of  the  world  refuses  to  regard  with 
favor. 

Many  will  recall  the  lofty  scorn  which  Matthew 
Arnold  poured  upon  the  men  who  for  generations 
had  admired  and  enjoyed  Macaulay's  Lays  of 
Ancient  Rome.  He  proclaimed  that  a  man's  power 
to  detect  the  ring  of  false  metal  in  these  pieces  was 
a  good  measure  of  his  fitness  to  give  an  opinion  about 


[xii] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


poetical  matters  at  all.  The  self-sufficiency  of  this 
utterance  is  as  delicious  as  its  positiveness.  These 
Lays,  it  may  be  added,  had  been  welcomed  with  such 
intense  enthusiasm  by  Christopher  North,  the  critical 
lawgiver  of  the  generation  of  their  appearance,  that 
Macaulay  felt  himself  constrained  to  make  a  personal 
acknowledgment  of  the  cordiality  of  the  greeting  his 
work  had  met  from  the  then  all-powerful  reviewer 
who  had  been  one  of  his  extreme  political  adversaries. 
But  there  is  an  even  more  amusing  side  to  the  affair. 
The  self-satisfied  criticism  of  Matthew  Arnold  could 
hardly  have  failed  to  bring  to  Trevelyan  a  half-mali 
cious  pleasure,  when  he  revealed  in  his  fascinating 
life  of  his  uncle  that  it  was  the  urgency  of  Arnold's 
own  father  that  led  Macaulay  to  complete  and  pub 
lish  these  Lays.  They  owed  their  conception  to  the 
theory  of  Niebuhr  that  the  stories  told  in  the  first 
three  or  four  books  of  Livy  came  from  the  lost  bal 
lads  of  the  early  Romans.  This  theory,  Thomas 
Arnold  adopted  in  his  history  as  having  been  fully 
established.  Macaulay  also  took  the  same  view. 
Accordingly  he  amused  himself,  while  in  India,  with 
the  effort  to  restore  some  of  these  long-perished 
poems.  Thomas  Arnold  died  before  the  Lays  were 
printed,  but  not  before  he  had  seen  two  of  them  in 
manuscript.  These  so  impressed  him  that  he  wrote 
to  Macaulay  about  them  in  terms  of  such  eulogy  that 


ami  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 

the  latter  was  induced  to  go  on  with  the  completion 
and  correction  of  them.  In  consequence  the  son  was 
unconsciously  exhibiting  his  own  father  as  unfit  to 
express  any  opinion  ahout  poetry  at  all. 

The  possession  of  creative  power  is  indeed  far 
from  implying  the  possession  of  a  corresponding 
degree  of  critical  judgment.  In  literature  all  of  us 
have  our  preferences  and  our  aversions.  Perhaps 
even  more  than  their  inferiors  are  men  of  genius 
susceptible  to  feelings  of  this  nature  and  to  the 
errors  of  judgment  caused  by  them.  The  revela 
tion  of  their  likes  and  dislikes  is  in  consequence  apt 
to  be  more  entertaining  than  edifying.  At  any  rate, 
there  is  nothing  surprising  in  itself  that  Tennyson 
and  Wordsworth  should  each  have  cared  in  the 
poetry  of  Burns  for  what  the  other  did  not  care 
at  all.  Each  found  in  it  that  which  appealed  to  him 
especially  and  also  that  which  did  not  appeal  to  him 
in  the  slightest.  It  is  but  a  single  one  of  many  proofs 
that  the  estimate  taken  by  a  man  of  genius  of  a  par 
ticular  work  or  writer  is  not  necessarily  of  any  more 
value  than  that  taken  by  any  other  highly  educated 
man,  though  it  inevitably  carries  more  weight  with 
the  general  public.  When,  however,  this  estimate 
comes  into  direct  conflict  with  the  deliberate  and 
settled  opinion  of  the  great  body  of  cultivated  read 
ers,  it  is  really  of  no  value  at  all. 

[  xw  } 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


For  the  truth  is  that  in  the  case  of  works  of  the 
imagination  the  settled  judgment  of  the  great  body 
of  cultivated  men  is  infinitely  superior  to  the  judg 
ment  of  any  one  man,  however  eminent.  Very  wisely 
that  body  will  not  in  the  long  run,  nor  ordinarily 
even  in  the  short  run,  accept  the  decision  of  any  self- 
constituted  censor  which  runs  counter  to  its  own 
conclusions.  A  genuinely  great  production  will  in 
the  end  find  its  own  public  which  in  time  will  become 
the  public ;  and  that  public  will  not  be  deterred  from 
admiring  it  by  the  most  bitter  attacks  of  the  ablest 
writers  in  the  most  influential  periodicals.  In  his 
estimate  of  works  involving  special  knowledge,  the 
individual  wisely  defers  to  the  authority  of  experts. 
In  works  of  the  imagination,  however,  every  man  of 
culture  is  in  varying  degrees  an  expert  himself. 
When  dealing  with  productions  of  this  class  the  right 
of  private  judgment  overrides  the  authority  of  the 
highest  court  of  criticism,  reverses  its  decisions  and 
frequently  visits  with  contumely  those  who  have  pro 
nounced  its  verdicts.  For  this  view  we  have  the 
authority  of  the  acutest  of  observers  and  thinkers. 
Aristotle  long  ago  pointed  out  that  in  the  matter  of 
music  and  poetry,  the  opinion  of  all  men — of  course 
he  had  in  mind  all  those  competent  to  be  considered 
judges — was  far  more  worthy  of  respect  than  the 
opinion  of  seemingly  the  greatest  authority.  "The 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


people  at  large,"  said  he,  "however  contemptible  they 
may  appear  when  taken  individually,  are  not,  when 
collectively  considered,  unworthy  of  sovereignty. 
They  are  the  best  judges  of  music  and  poetry.  The 
general  taste  is  not  only  better  than  that  of  the  few, 
but  even  than  that  of  any  one  man,  howsoever  dis 
cerning  he  may  be." 

It  is  not  necessary  to  consider  here  the  reasons 
which  Aristotle  adduced  to  establish  the  correctness 
of  this  view.  It  is  enough  for  us  to  recognize  the 
fact  that  the  experience  of  men,  rightly  interpreted, 
bears  witness  to  its  truth.  In  each  of  the  cases  just 
mentioned  the  question  has  been  settled  accordingly. 
However  wide  differences  of  opinion  may  be  as  to  the 
actual  or  comparative  value  of  particular  pieces,  the 
verdict  of  the  educated  multitude  has  been  given  in 
approval  of  both  the  serious  and  the  amatory  poems 
of  Burns.  It  has  likewise  been  given  in  approval  of 
the  Roman  lays  of  Macaulay.  That  individuals  may 
plume  themselves  upon  the  peculiar  exquisiteness  of 
taste  they  exhibit  in  dissenting  from  the  estimate 
taken  by  the  public,  does  not  affect  the  justice  of  that 
estimate  any  more  than  it  does  its  permanence.  It 
is  full  as  often  the  fate  of  the  too  superior  person, 
as  it  is  that  of  the  too  inferior  one,  to  show  his  lack 
of  critical  judgment  by  the  judgment  he  shows. 

Owing,  however,  to  this  wide  diversity  of  taste,  no 

[  xm  } 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


work  of  the  nature  of  the  present  volume  can  ever 
be  wholly  satisfactory  to  any  one  save  the  compiler, 
if  indeed  it  be  so  to  him.  As  regards  the  rest  of  the 
world,  he  must  content  himself  with  at  best  a  quali 
fied  approval  even  if  he  succeeds  in  avoiding  general 
condemnation.  An  assumption  that  any  collection 
made  by  a  single  person,  no  matter  who  he  be,  can 
possibly  represent  the  final  conclusions  of  the  judg 
ment  of  the  collective  body  of  cultivated  men  is  as 
utterly  unwarranted  by  experience  as  it  is  unsup 
ported  by  reason.  Yet  it  is  an  assumption  which  has 
more  than  once  been  made.  Let  us  take,  for  example, 
the  Household  Bool:  of  Poetry  brought  out  in  1857 
by  Charles  Anderson  Dana.  This  was  an  excellent 
compilation  as  well  as  the  earliest  with  us  of  its  spe 
cial  class.  It  was  received  with  great  favor  and  it 
deserved  all  the  favor  it  received.  Yet  nothing  more 
unwise  or  unwarranted  could  well  have  been  written 
than  the  opening  sentence  of  its  preface.  "The  pur 
pose  of  this  book,"  said  the  editor,  "is  to  comprise 
within  the  bounds  of  a  single  volume  whatever  is 
truly  beautiful  and  admirable  among  the  minor 
poems  of  the  English  language."  No  more  sugges 
tive  comment  need  be  given  upon  the  claim  then  put 
forth  than  the  remark  contained  in  the  advertisement 
prefixed  to  a  subsequent  edition.  In  that  it  was 
stated  that  some  pieces  originally  included  had  been 

[  xvii  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


dropped  and  their  places  filled  by  others  believed  to 
possess  greater  merit. 

A  statement  of  the  sort  just  made  is  based,  in 
truth,  not  only  upon  the  assumption  that  the  editor's 
acquaintance  with  the  poetical  literature  of  our  race 
is  absolutely  complete,  but  that  his  judgment  of  the 
comparative  excellence  of  the  pieces  composing  it  is 
absolutely  perfect.  No  one  would  be  willing  to  con 
cede  the  latter  qualification  and  few  the  former. 
Every  collection  of  poems  must  inevitably  reflect  to 
a  great  extent  the  limitation  of  the  compiler's  knowl 
edge.  Many  pieces  which  he  would  have  been  glad  to 
include,  had  he  been  aware  of  their  existence,  are 
likely  to  have  escaped  his  observation.  But  were 
there  no  lack  of  knowledge,  the  choice  he  makes  will 
be  certain  to  reflect  the  nature  of  his  literary  sym 
pathies,  and  even  more  the  limitations  of  his  literary 
taste;  at  all  events  its  distinctive  character.  There 
are  certain  poems  which  it  is  always  easy  to  select. 
Upon  them  the  consent  of  the  ages  has  already  set 
the  stamp  of  approval.  Against  this  verdict  of  suc 
cessive  generations  there  may  be  protest  upon  the 
part  of  the  individual;  but  from  it  there  can  be  no 
valid  appeal. 

If,  indeed,  any  one  finds  himself  disliking  some 
thing  in  which  cultivated  men  of  all  periods  have 
taken  delight,  it  will  be  well  for  him  to  make  a  care- 

[  xviii  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


ful  examination  of  himself.  The  chances  are  that 
his  own  poor  estimate  of  such  work  is  due  to  a  defect 
in  himself  and  not  in  the  poetry  he  undervalues.  Few 
of  us  are  sufficiently  endowed  with  that  broadminded- 
ness  of  judgment  and  that  catholicity  of  taste  which 
enable  its  possessor  to  bring  to  poetry  of  essentially 
different  kinds  an  equal  capacity  of  appreciation. 
That  may  be  a  misfortune  we  cannot  help;  but  we 
can  free  ourselves,  at  least,  from  the  fancy  of  looking 
upon  our  own  onesidedness  and  our  inability  to  sym 
pathize  with  the  judgments  of  others  whom  we  recog 
nize  to  be  our  intellectual  equals,  as  proof  that  we  are 
in  possession  of  a  taste  peculiarly  refined. 

For  he  indeed  assumes  a  certain  degree  of  risk  who 
ventures  to  set  up  his  own  estimate  of  particular 
pieces  in  opposition  to  that  which  the  large  majority 
of  cultivated  men  have  apparently  taken.  Where 
something  is  plainly  inferior  or  commonplace  an 
editor  may  feel  at  liberty  to  exercise  his  own  dis 
cretion  as  to  its  exclusion,  no  matter  how  popular  it 
may  be  with  thousands.  But  when  it  stands  on  the 
border  line  between  the  mediocre  and  the  good,  he 
ought,  while  preserving  his  independence,  to  have  a 
certain  hesitation  in  preferring  his  own  taste  to 
that  of  scores  of  educated  men  whom  he  recognizes 
to  be  as  competent  as  he  to  sit  in  judgment.  I  have 
myself  tried  to  conform  to  this  dictum  in  the  present 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


volume.  There  are  certain  cases  in  which  I  have 
inserted  in  it  poems,  not  because  of  the  estimate 
I  personally  entertain  of  their  excellence,  but  because 
of  the  estimate  entertained  by  others,  whose  critical 
opinion  I  respect.  One  or  two  specific  instances 
will  be  given  in  the  course  of  this  essay  in  which  I 
have  submitted  my  own  judgment  to  that  of  the  large 
majority  of  critics,  preferring  to  believe  that  my 
taste  must  be  wrong,  coming  into  conflict  as  it  does 
with  that  of  so  many  others.  Furthermore,  certain 
poems  have  been  included  here,  commonplace  enough 
so  far  as  the  words  are  concerned,  but  to  which  asso 
ciations  have  come  to  attach  themselves  entirely  inde 
pendent  of  their  literary  quality.  Popular  interest 
or  historic  importance  may  be  taken  to  indicate  that 
there  is  warrant  for  their  insertion.  Every  one 
would  notice  their  absence ;  some  would  resent  it.  A 
notable  instance  of  this  is  Home,  Sweet  Home. 

Still,  as  regards  poems  which  have  received  the 
approval  of  generations,  there  is  generally  little  diffi 
culty  for  the  editor.  But  between  the  distinctly  great 
pieces  which  all  men  competent  to  judge  would 
accept  without  hesitation  and  the  distinctly  inferior 
pieces  which  these  same  persons  would  as  summarily 
reject,  there  lies  a  vast  body  of  verse.  Here  the 
world  has  not  spoken  authoritatively.  Hence  at  this 
point  comes  in  the  play  of  individual  choice.  That 


[XX] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


choice  will  be  often  widely  different  in  the  case  of 
men  apparently  equal  in  knowledge  and  in  critical 
judgment.  One  will  rate  a  poem  above  the  border 
line  which  separates  excellence  from  mediocrity,  the 
other  will  place  it  below.  In  each  instance  the  influ 
ence  of  the  personal  equation  becomes  recognizable. 
To  the  one  the  poem  may  appeal  because  it  calls  up 
for  him  subtle  trains  of  association,  or  because  it  re 
vives  for  him  certain  feelings  to  which  experiences  of 
his  own  have  made  him  keenly  sensitive,  or  because  it 
touches  upon  problems  of  life  and  conduct  in  which 
he  is  profoundly  interested.  To  the  other  it  conveys 
none  of  these  things.  Because  it  does  not,  he  passes 
it  by  without  interest  and  without  regard. 

It  is  further  true  that  poetry  which  appeals  to  us 
at  one  period  of  life  will  sometimes  not  do  so  at 
another.  The  taste  has  changed;  it  is  not  neces 
sary — it  is  certainly  not  discreet — to  assume  that  it 
has  improved.  But  far  more  influential  than  any 
other  cause  for  difference  of  opinion  are  essential 
differences  in  men's  natures  which  are  sufficient  to 
render  the  judgment  partial.  There  exist  among  the 
most  highly  cultivated  wide  variations  of  taste — vari 
ations  which  extend  to  subject  as  well  as  treatment. 
A  certain  kind  of  verse  is  fairly  sure  to  attract  a 
certain  class  of  minds — not  necessarily  to  the  exclu 
sion  of  other  kinds,  but  to  a  decided  preference  for 


xxi  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


it  over  them.  One  man  is  fond  of  meditative  poetry ; 
another  of  that  which  glitters  with  point  and  sparkle ; 
another  of  that  which  deals  in  outbursts  of  intense 
feeling.  It  may  be  that  this  preference  will  exist 
with  enjoyment  and  appreciation  of  a  different  kind 
of  poetry,  or  indeed  of  all  other  kinds  of  poetry.  It 
may  be  even  that  there  will  be  an  intellectual  acknowl 
edgment  of  the  superiority  of  some  other  kind.  Still 
the  fact  remains  that  this  is  the  one  kind  which 
appeals  to  the  man  himself,  the  one  kind  that  attracts 
and  influences  him. 

Furthermore,  there  are  certain  moods  of  mind  and 
states  of  experience  in  which  a  person  is  affected  by 
the  writings  of  one  author  and  could  not  be  influenced 
bv  those  of  another  of  equal  or  even  greater  powers. 
This  is  something  entirely  different  from  according 
to  the  author  in  question  a  supreme  position,  though 
it  must  be  conceded  that  it  has  a  tendency  to  elevate 
him  to  the  highest.  There  is  a  very  signal  illustra 
tion  of  this  fact  in  the  account  which  John  Stuart 
Mill  gives  in  his  autobiography  of  the  crisis  of  men 
tal  depression  through  which  he  passed  in  his  youth. 
In  this  he  tried  to  find  relief  in  poetry.  To  it  he  had 
previously  paid  little  attention.  He  turned  to  Byron 
and  found  in  him  no  help.  That  poet's  state  of  mind 
was  too  like  his  own.  Life  was  to  him  the  vapid, 
uninteresting  thing  which  it  had  become  to  the  one 

[  xxii  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


who  sought  relief  in  his  pages  for  his  own  dejection. 
It  was  in  Wordsworth  that  he  found  relief — not  in 
The  Excursion,  he  tells  us,  from  which  he  gained  little 
or  nothing,  but  from  the  miscellaneous  poems  which 
appeared  in  the  edition  of  1815.  From  the  teach 
ings  of  that  poet  he  gradually  emerged  from  the 
dejection  which  was  threatening  to  become  habitual. 
This  instance  is  particularly  worthy  of  notice  because 
Mill  was  disposed  to  underrate  Wordsworth.  He  did 
not  place  his  work  on  a  high  level  of  achievement. 
Even  in  that  writer's  own  age  he  thought  there  had 
been  far  greater  poets.  "I  long  continued  to  value 
Wordsworth,"  he  wrote,  "less  according  to  his  intrin 
sic  merits  than  by  the  measure  of  what  he  had  done 
for  me.  Compared  with  the  greatest  poets,  he  may 
be  said  to  be  the  poet  of  unpoetical  natures,  possessed 
of  quiet  and  contemplative  tastes.  But  unpoetic 
natures  are  precisely  those  which  require  poetic  cul 
tivation.  This  cultivation  Wordsworth  is  much  more 
fitted  to  give  than  poets  who  are  intrinsically  far 
more  poets  than  he." 

The  dissent  which  such  a  view  of  Wordsworth  will 
awaken  in  that  author's  admirers  renders  distinct 
and  marked  the  impossibility  of  bringing  about  har 
mony  of  view  as  to  the  comparative  greatness  of  par 
ticular  poets  or  as  to  the  estimate  which  should  be 
taken  of  the  value  of  particular  pieces.  On  such  points 

[  xxiii  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


the  judgments  of  men  of  different  natures  can  never 
be  reconciled.  If  the  fondness  for  any  one  sort  of  verse 
chances  to  be  controlling,  it  is  hard  for  its  possessor 
to  do  justice  to  productions  of  a  totally  different 
character.  The  followers  of  poets  of  unlike  types  are 
fairly  sure  to  be  drawn  up  in  different  camps.  They 
are  not  unfrequently  found  ranged  in  hostile  ones. 
As  a  result  the  enthusiastic  admirer  of  some  partic 
ular  author  is  seldom  content  with  expressing  what 
is  for  him  a  perfectly  justifiable  preference.  He  feels 
impelled  to  depreciate  if  not  to  deny  totally  the  mer 
its  of  some  rival  author  with  whom  his  own  idol  is 
constantly  contrasted.  He  seems  unawrare  that  in 
thus  giving  vent  to  his  hostility  he  is  doing  little 
more  than  betray  his  own  limitations. 

In  this  matter  the  difference  in  the  point  of  view 
from  which  the  works  of  different  writers  are  looked 
at  by  different  editors  can  be  brought  home  to  every 
one  by  comparing  the  poems  taken  from  particular 
authors  as  found  in  this  volume  with  those  contained 
in  the  various  anthologies  which  have  been  for  some 
time  before  the  public.  It  can  be  made  still  more 
emphatic  by  comparing  these  anthologies  with  one 
another.  In  all  of  them  the  influence  of  individual 
taste  and  preference  makes  itself  distinctly  felt.  For 
obvious  reasons  the  attention  is  here  confined  to  the 
poetical  collections  brought  out  in  this  country.  Of 

[  xxw  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


these  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  during  the  last  fifty 
or  sixty  years  there  have  been  published  a  full  half- 
dozen  which  have  aimed  at  completeness.  As  they 
set  out  to  cover  the  whole  field  of  English  literature, 
much  the  largest  proportion  of  what  they  contain 
has  been  taken  from  British  authors.  Still  they  have 
given  full  recognition  to  whatever  has  come  from 
America  which  they  have  deemed  worthy  of  inclusion. 
The  earliest  of  these  works  was  Dana's  Household 
Book  of  Poetry  already  mentioned.  The  second  ap 
peared  in  1870.  It  was  entitled  The  Library  of 
Poetry  and  Song.  To  it  was  prefixed  an  introduc 
tion  by  William  Cullen  Bryant.  Though  not  actually 
compiled  by  him,  it  passed  under  his  supervision  and 
revision.  In  so  doing  he  added  and  excluded  a  good 
deal  of  matter ;  hence  it  came  to  go  under  his  name. 
Then  followed,  in  1875,  Emerson's  collection  entitled 
Parnassus,  and  the  next  year  Whittier's  Songs  of 
Three  Centuries.  The  fifth  is  the  Fireside  Encyclo 
pedia  of  Poetry,  which  came  out  in  1878,  edited  by  a 
Philadelphia  publisher,  Henry  T.  Coates.  Finally 
appeared,  in  1881,  Harper's  Encyclopedia  of  British 
and  American  Poetry,  edited  by  Epes  Sargent.  To 
these  six  may  fairly  be  added  The  American  Anthol 
ogy  of  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  which  was  pub 
lished  in  1900.  This,  indeed,  differs  from  the  others 
in  character  as  well  as  in  content.  Like  the  earlier 

[mw] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 

similar  volume  of  Griswold,  it  was  not  designed  as  a 
collection  of  poems  of  undisputed  worth,  but  as  a 
general  representation  of  the  work  of  American 
authors  who  had  written  verse  of  various  degrees 
of  excellence. 

Here,  therefore,  are  seven  volumes,  six  of  which 
purport  to  contain  nothing  save  what  their  compilers 
deemed  to  be  of  value  in  itself,  as  well  as  what  would 
be  generally  conceded  to  be  the  best  work  of  the  best 
authors.  Several  of  them  were  edited  by  men  who 
had  themselves  attained  the  widest  recognition  as 
writers  of  verse.  From  these  last  one  might  natu 
rally  expect  a  fair  degree  of  unanimity  of  opinion  as 
to  what  pieces  could  be  considered  as  most  deserving 
of  inclusion.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  nothing  is  more 
striking  than  the  variations  displayed  in  the  selec 
tions  made.  The  discrepancies  of  choice  are  so  great 
as  almost  to  deserve  the  epithet  of  startling,  if  indeed 
they  may  not  be  called  amazing.  And  this  difference 
of  taste  is  not  confined  to  the  work  of  writers  but 
little  known.  It  is  fully  as  remarkable  in  the  case  of 
American  poets  of  the  first  rank,  about  the  compara 
tive  value  of  whose  production  there  might  seem  to 
have  grown  up  an  agreement  of  opinion  which  would 
make  the  task  of  selection  comparatively  easy. 

Take  for  illustration  the  diversity  of  choice  ex 
hibited  in  the  selections  made  from  two  or  three  of 

[  xxm  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


the  best  known  of  these  poets.  Let  us  begin  with 
Longfellow.  He  has  been  so  much  before  the  public 
and  so  popular  that  a  general  agreement  would 
naturally  be  looked  for  as  to  those  pieces  of  his  which 
had  received  the  approval  of  the  whole  circle  of  the 
most  cultivated  body  of  readers.  Yet  in  his  case  a 
peculiarly  wide  discrepancy  of  choice  has  shown  it 
self.  Of  the  sixteen  pieces  of  his  which  are  found  in 
this  volume,  one  alone  reaches  the  distinction  of  being 
contained  in  as  many  as  four  of  the  seven  antholo 
gies  just  mentioned.  This  is  the  Psalm  of  Life,  or 
what  the  Heart  of  the  Young  Man  said  to  the 
Psalmist.  It  is  the  most  widely  quoted  of  Long 
fellow's  poems ;  to  me  it  is  one  of  the  least  worthy  of 
quotation.  It  is  largely  a  collection  of  observations 
which  when  they  are  not  platitudinous,  are  not  true. 
There  is  little  use  in  telling  us  that  the  lives  of  great 
men  remind  us  that  we  can  make  our  own  lives 
sublime.  Most  of  us  are  perfectly  well  aware  that 
the  sublime  lives  of  great  men — and  their  lives  have 
not  unfrequently  been  petty — can  not  serve  as  exam 
ples  to  us,  because  we  are  not  great  men.  Conse 
quently  we  lack  the  ability  to  leave  footprints  on  the 
sands  of  time,  however  much  we  may  have  the  desire. 
Nor  indeed  does  the  particular  method  recommended 
strike  one  as  practicable.  The  last  place  a  rational 
man  would  choose  for  leaving  a  permanent  footprint 

[  xxvii  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


would  be  on  the   sandy  beach  bordering  an  ocean. 
The  chance  of  its  lasting  long  enough  to  be  seen  by 
any  one  sailing  over  life's  solemn  main  would  be  too 
slight  to  make  it  worth  while  to  take  the  trouble  of 
implanting  it.     In  truth  this  particular  young  man 
seems  to  have  been  very  young.     He  is  advised  by  his 
heart  to  be  a  hero  not  only  in  the  battle  but  in  the 
bivouac.     If  the  psalmist  had  thought  it  worth  while 
to  reply,  he  would  doubtless  have  informed  the  young 
man  that  the  bivouac,  in  the  modern  sense  of  the 
word,  affords  little  opportunity  for  one  to  show  him 
self  a  hero,  and  that  the  best  thing  he  could  do  there 
would  be  to  act  like  one  of  the  dumb  driven  cattle 
which  his  heart  warns  him  not  to  imitate,  and  lie 
down   and  go  peacefully  to   sleep.     Yet  with  these 
views  about  the  poem  itself,  I  insert  it  in  this  collec 
tion  in  deference  to  a  sentiment  in  which  I  do  not 
share.     On  the  other  hand,  were  I  asked  to  choose  a 
piece  which  shows  Longfellow  at  his  best,  it  would  be 
that  which  appeared  originally  as  the  proem  to  his 
collection    entitled    The    Waif.      This    now    usually 
receives,  from  its  first  line,  the  heading,  The  Day  is 
Done.     Yet  out  of  these  seven  anthologies  it  is  found 
only  in  that  of  Coates. 

Let  us  consider  now  the  selections  from  Bryant. 
In  his  case  there  is  much  more  agreement  among  the 
compilers  of  these  various  anthologies  than  there  is 


[  y.vviii  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


in  that  of  Longfellow.  There  are  two  of  his  poems 
which  are  contained  in  every  one  of  them,  and  there 
are  three  or  four  others  which  have  found  a  place 
in  the  majority.  One  of  the  two  included  by  all  is 
The  Waterfowl.  Apparently  it  is  the  correct  thing 
to  admire  this  particular  piece.  It  is  invariably  or 
almost  invariably  printed  in  selections  from  Bryant's 
poetry.  It  is  as  regularly  extolled  as  a  singular 
proof  of  his  genius.  To  me  this  most  praised  of  his 
productions  is  the  least  worthy  of  those  usually 
chosen  as  representative.  It  is  merely  a  second-rate 
piece  of  work,  whose  inferiority  forces  itself  upon  the 
mind  because  it  inevitably  suggests  a  comparison  it 
can  not  bear  with  the  odes  to  the  Skylark  of  Shelley, 
of  Hogg  and  of  Wordsworth.  Yet  it  will  be  found 
here,  not  because  of  the  opinion  I  entertain  of  its 
merit,  but  because  its  actual  or  assumed  popularity 
with  most  educated  men  leads  me  to  distrust  my  own 
judgment.  On  the  other  hand,  the  omission  from 
these  various  anthologies  of  poems  which  fairly  arrest 
attention  strikes  one  as  much  more  singular  than 
some  of  the  selections.  Bryant  and  Stedman  are 
the  only  editors  who  insert  The  Snow-Shower.  The 
poet  himself  did  not  include  in  his  own  collection  the 
poem  of  June,  so  warmly  praised  by  Poe,  nor  The 
Conqueror's  Grave,  nor  The  Future  Life.  Of  these 
three  pieces  which  are  peculiarly  representative  of 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


Bryant's  finest  work,  the  first  two  are  found  only  in 
Stcdman's  and  the  last  only  in  Sargent's  collection. 
The  selections  from  Whittier  exhibit  even  wider 
discrepancies  of  taste.  In  his  Songs  of  Three  Centu 
ries,  he  included  six  of  his  own  pieces.  Literary  his 
tory  shows  that  poets  themselves  are  frequently  far 
from  being  the  best  judges  of  the  comparative  excel 
lence  of  their  own  performances.  The  difference  be 
tween  the  creative  and  the  critical  faculty  often 
becomes  at  such  times  almost  painfully  marked. 
That,  in  my  opinion,  Whittier  shared  in  this  not 
uncommon  defect  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that 
not  a  single  one  of  the  six  chosen  by  him  can  be  found 
in  the  present  volume.  I  have,  however,  the  consola 
tion  of  discovering  that  I  am  not  alone  in  my  blind 
ness  to  their  merits;  that  not  a  single  one  of  them 
found  its  way  into  six  of  the  anthologies  which  have 
been  mentioned ;  and  their  verdict  would  have  been 
unanimous  had  not  one  of  the  author's  half-dozen 
somehow  escaped  into  Coates's  collection.  On  the 
other  hand,  four  of  those  which  are  given  in  this 
work- — The  Old  Bury  ing-Ground,  Dedication  to  the 
Sewalls  of  the  volume  entitled  In  War  Time,  The 
Watchers,  and  Lines  on  the  Death  of  0.  S.  Torrey — 
have  no  place  in  a  single  one  of  the  seven  anthologies 
I  have  specified.  Two  other  poems — Randolph  of 
ttoanoke  and  What  the  Birds  Said — appear  in  but 

[«*»] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


a  single  one  of  these  collections,  in  each  case  in  a 
different  one. 

The  comparison  would  be  even  more  striking  in  the 
case  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  There  are  over 
thirty  of  his  pieces  not  found  here  which  are  included 
in  some  one  of  the  seven  volumes  mentioned.  Yet 
but  a  small  proportion  of  the  thirty  appears  in  more 
than  one  of  them.  On  the  other  hand,  half  a  score  of 
his  poems  which  are  here  included  cannot  be  found  in 
a  single  one  of  these  collections.  But  it  is  needless  to 
go  on  giving  illustrations  of  the  wide  divergencies  of 
judgment  and  taste  displayed  in  anthologies ;  for 
they  could  be  multiplied  almost  endlessly.  Facts  of 
this  nature  prove  conclusively  to  an  editor  that  the 
selections  he  makes  will  never  receive  the  full  approv 
al,  not  simply  of  all  lovers  of  poetry,  but  of  any 
individual  among  them.  The  impossibility  of  satisfy 
ing  critics  I  take  for  granted,  just  as  I  would  the 
impossibility  of  any  one  of  them  satisfying  me,  were 
he  to  undertake  a  similar  task. 

What,  therefore,  is  incumbent  to  say  here  is  to 
point  out  precisely  what  the  aim  is  which  has  been 
kept  in  view  in  making  this  particular  collection.  It 
differs  largely  from  most  of  the  others  which  have 
been  brought  out.  It  puts  forth  no  pretense  of  being 
representative  or  inclusive  of  American  verse  or 
verse-makers.  Some  names  found  in  other  antholo- 


xxxi 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


gies  do  not  appear  here  at  all.  Some  again  appear 
which  are  found  in  none  of  the  others.  This  last  was 
partly  due  to  the  fact  that  the  plan  of  this  work  was 
to  comprise  kinds  of  verse  which  the  plan  of  certain 
if  not  of  all  the  others  excluded.  Had  the  whole  field 
of  English  literature  been  open  to  draw  from,  it 
would  have  been  easy  from  the  abundance  of  material 
to  restrict  the  selection  to  wrhat  might  be  distinctly 
called  poetry  pure  and  simple.  Confined  as  this  vol 
ume  is  to  the  comparatively  scanty  body  of  American 
verse,  liberty  of  choice  of  this  nature  did  not  exist. 
Such  a  limitation  was  practically  impossible.  Yet  had 
there  been  for  it  a  demand,  it  would  not  have 
seemed  to  me  desirable.  Every  kind  of  verse  worth 
reading  at  all  has  a  right  to  be  represented ;  all  that 
can  fairly  be  demanded  is  that  the  poem  chosen 
should  be  good  in  its  kind,  though  the  kind  itself  may 
be  distinctly  inferior.  Accordingly  specimens  of  all 
sorts  of  poetry  can  be  found  in  the  present  volume — 
the  serious,  the  light,  the  contemplative,  the  pathetic, 
the  humorous  and  the  satiric.  Not  even  has  the  trav 
esty  been  excluded ;  and  there  are  a  goodly  number 
of  specimens  of  that  sort  of  verse  which  in  our  tongue 
lacks  a  recognized  name  and  appears  under  the 
foreign  title  of  vers  de  societe.  Perhaps,  indeed, 
disproportionate  space  has  been  given  to  the  repre 
sentatives  of  these  minor  classes.  Yet  this  is  a  fault, 

[  xxxii  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


if  it  be  a  fault,  which  the  general  reader  will  be  dis 
posed  to  pardon,  however  much  the  severe  student  of 
poetry  may  disapprove. 

As  the  authors  from  whom  selections  were  made 
were  required  to  follow  one  another  in  chronological 
order,  there  was  no  choice  save  to  begin  with  speci 
mens  of  religious  poetry ;  for  only  in  that  is  found 
the  very  little  of  our  early  verse  that  can  be  deemed 
worthy  of  citation  at  all.  Few  will  be  disposed  to 
deny  that  Joel  Barlow's  version  of  the  one  hundred 
and  thirty-seventh  psalm  is  worth  more,  poetically 
considered,  than  the  whole  of  his  laborious  epic,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  other  pieces.  Curiously  enough, 
not  even  his  name,  as  well  as  that  of  one  or  two 
others  represented  in  this  volume,  appears  in  Sted- 
man's  supposedly  all-embracing  anthology.  The  fact 
that  Barlow's  version  of  this  psalm  is  rarely  found 
in  modern  hymnals,  is  another  justification  for  its 
inclusion  in  this  work.  Still,  in  the  case  of  religious 
poetry,  it  must  be  confessed,  the  choice  is  so  hard 
as  to  be  almost  perilous.  "A  good  hymn,"  said 
Tennyson,  "is  the  most  difficult  thing  in  the  world  to 
write.  For  a  good  hymn  you  have  to  be  common 
place  and  poetical.  The  moment  you  cease  to  be 
commonplace  and  put  in  an  expression  at  all  out  of 
the  common,  it  ceases  to  be  a  hymn."  But  if  difficul 
ties  of  this  sort  beset  the  writer,  full  as  perplexing 

[  xxxiii  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


ones  beset  the  editor.  Most  hymns  that  have  any 
enduring  popularity  are  almost  invariably  set  to 
particular  tunes.  The  permanent  addition  of  music 
to  the  words  blunts  in  time  the  critical  sense.  The 
two  are  at  last  so  blended  in  the  minds  of  those  by 
whom  they  are  heard  frequently  that  it  becomes  prac 
tically  impossible  to  dissociate  them  and  judge  the 
value  of  each  independently.  Hence  the  compiler  is 
always  in  danger  of  choosing  pieces  not  so  much  on 
account  of  the  poetic  merit  they  possess  as  of  the 
music  to  which  they  are  set ;  for  he  cannot  tell  where 
the  influence  of  the  one  begins  and  that  of  the  other 
ends.  It  may  therefore  be  that  he  who  comes  to 
the  consideration  of  some  of  these  pieces  without  any 
associations  save  those  purely  literary  may  find 
them  unworthy  of  being  included. 

Of  the  earlier  writers  represented  in  this  collection, 
the  two  who  seem  to  have  given  most  promise  of 
future  performance  were  cut  off  prematurely. 
These  were  Joseph  Rodman  Drake  and  Edward 
Coate  Pinkncy.  Both  suffered  long  from  disease, 
both  lived  only  about  a  quarter  of  a  century.  For 
most  of  us  the  memory  of  Drake  has  been  better  pre 
served  by  the  lines  Halleck  wrrote  on  his  death  than  by 
anything  lie  himself  produced.  Of  the  two,  indeed, 
Pinkney's  was  the  more  poetic  nature.  There  is 
something  peculiarly  pathetic  in  the  following  pas- 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


sage  from  one  of  his  poems,  revealing  as  it  does  the 
sickness  of  heart  that  comes  from  failing  hope  and 
the  depression  of  spirit  which  the  shadow  of  death 
had  already  begun  to  cast  upon  his  life: 

A  sense  it  was,  that  I  could  see 

The  angel  leave  my  side — 
That  thenceforth  my  prosperity 

Must  be  a  falling  tide; 
A  strange  and  ominous  belief 
That  in  spring-time  the  yellow  leaf 

Had  fallen  on  my  hours; 
And  that  all  hope  must  be  most  vain,, 
Of  finding  on  my  path  again, 

Its  former,  vanished  flowers. 

Pinkney  is  best  known  by  his  piece  entitled,  A  Health; 
and  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  anywhere  in  English 
literature  a  more  exquisite  tribute  paid  to  woman 
hood.  It  is  unquestionably  the  most  perfect  of  his 
productions;  but  there  is  excellence  enough  in  his 
other  work  to  make  keenly  felt  the  loss  which  Ameri 
can  literature  suffered  from  his  prolonged  illness  and 
the  consequent  despondency  which  hung  over  much  of 
his  life  and  ceased  only  with  his  untimely  death. 

No  small  number  of  authors  will  be  found  repre 
sented  in  this  collection  by  a  single  piece  only.  There 
is  nothing  peculiar  in  itself  in  the  fact.  Writers  of 


XXXV 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


established  reputation  in  English  literature  there 
are  who  continue  to  flourish — if  that  verb  can  be 
properly  used  in  such  cases — almost  entirely  on  the 
strength  of  one,  two  or  three  short  poems.  They 
may  have  produced  a  large  body  of  other  verse  and 
usually  have  done  so.  This  may  have  had  too  in  its 
own  day  great  vogue ;  but  it  is  now  unfamiliar  to  all 
save  literary  scholars  or  rather  literary  antiquaries. 
Take  as  an  illustration  the  case  of  Edmund  Waller. 
He  was  so  much  a  favorite  writer  of  the  seventeenth 
century  that  by  large  numbers  he  was  regarded  as  the 
greatest  poet  of  his  time.  His  first  collected  volume 
of  verse  belongs  to  1645,  the  year  which  witnessed  a 
similar  venture  on  the  part  of  Milton.  The  immediate 
fortunes  of  the  two  works  were,  however,  distinctly 
different.  Three  editions  of  Waller's  volume  ap 
peared  the  first  year  of  its  publication.  Before  his 
death  in  1687  four  others  had  followed,  to  say  noth 
ing  of  his  many  productions  published  separately. 
Yet  so  far  now  as  he  retains  acceptance  with  the  mass 
of  educated  men,  his  repute  rests  upon  two  or  three 
short  pieces,  in  very  deed  mainly  upon  one. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  a  good  deal  of  an  achievement  to 
have  produced  even  a  single  piece  of  poetry  which  the 
men  of  aftertimes  will  continue  to  cherish  as  part  of 
the  intellectual  riches  of  the  race.  The  fact  is  that  in 
the  same  way  as  many  persons  are  capable  of  writing 

[  xxxvi  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


but  one  good  work  of  fiction,  so  many  persons  are 
capable  of  writing  but  one  really  excellent  poem. 
Their  other  productions  may  possess  merit  of  a  sort ; 
only  one  stands  out  so  conspicuously  among  its  fel 
lows  that  the  world  recognizes  its  superiority  the 
moment  it  chances  to  be  brought  to  its  attention. 
This  truth  is  illustrated  frequently  in  this  volume. 
The  Florence  Vane  of  Philip  Pendleton  Cooke;  the 
Two  Villages  of  Rose  Terry  Cooke ;  the  After  the  Ball 
of  Nora  Perry;  the  Ships  at  Sea  of  Robert  Barry 
Coffin,  and  several  others  which  could  be  mentioned, 
are  so  much  better  than  anything  besides,  which  each 
of  these  authors  has  written,  that  it  perhaps  tends  to 
render  the  critic  unjust  to  whatever  else  they  have 
accomplished.  Still  to  be  judged  by  his  best  per 
formance  always  tends  to  add  more  to  the  credit  of 
the  writer  than  if  the  attention  were  distracted  from 
it  to  other  pieces,  which  even  if  good  in  themselves 
are  distinctly  inferior  to  the  one  selected  as  represen 
tative. 

It  has  been  part  of  my  plan  to  give  those  pieces 
dealing  with  the  feelings  and  fortunes  of  the  comba 
tants  during  the  long  and  desperate  struggle  that 
went  on  between  North  and  South,  the  poetical  merits 
of  which  might  seem  to  justify  their  insertion.  A 
large  body  of  verse  came  then  into  being  and  even 
afterward.  Much  of  it  naturally  owed  the  favorable 

[  xxxvii  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


reception  it  met  to  the  fact  that  it  appealed  to  the 
excited  passions  of  the  moment.  Its  literary  quality 
came  little  into  consideration.  Still  there  are  poems 
occasioned  by  the  Civil  War  which  are  worthy  of  a 
place  in  any  American  anthology.  Of  the  lyrics  then 
produced  two  stand  out  as  of  exceptional  excellence. 
One  is  My  Maryland,  the  impassioned  appeal  of 
James  Ryder  Randall,  then  resident  in  Louisiana,  to 
his  native  state  to  join  the  South  in  its  resistance 
to  Northern  aggression.  The  other  is  Julia  Ward 
Howe's  Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic,  in  which  the 
fiery  anti-slavery  zeal  of  a  minority,  soon  to  become 
a  majority,  found  its  most  adequate  expression.  Yet 
in  spite  not  only  of  the  fervor  but  of  the  exquisite 
literary  finish  of  the  latter  poem,  it  seems  to  me 
decidedly  inferior  as  a  martial  lyric  to  the  stirring 
strains  of  the  former. 

Here  again  some  pieces  have  been  included,  not  so 
much  on  the  score  of  their  literary  excellence  as  for 
the  reason  that  they  came  to  be  endeared  to  those 
participating  in  the  conflict  in  consequence  of  serv 
ing  as  a  solace  to  their  feelings  or  an  inspiration  to 
their  acts.  Verses  which  operate  upon  the  hearts  of 
multitudes  and  express  their  emotions  deserve  recog 
nition  in  any  anthology  even  if  their  literary  merit 
is  so  far  from  being  of  the  highest  type  that  it  is  not 
in  fact  very  high.  This  itself  is  a  sufficient  reason 


xxxvm 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


for  including  Palmer's  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way,  and 
above  all  Dixie,  which  in  its  literary  form,  as  con 
trasted  with  its  popular  one,  was  singularly  enough 
the  production  of  a  man  of  Massachusetts  birth  who 
never  saw  the  South  until  after  he  had  reached  his 
majority. 

It  is  a  peculiarity  of  many  of  these  Civil  War 
poems  that  their  content  would  frequently  fail  to  re 
veal  the  section  of  country  from  which  they  came. 
This  indeed  might  naturally  be  expected  to  happen 
when  the  combatants  on  each  side  had  not  the  slight 
est  doubt  in  their  minds  that  in  taking  the  course  they 
did,  they  were  doing  their  best  to  carry  out  the  pur 
poses  of  the  Lord.  In  consequence  there  is  often 
nothing  in  the  words  themselves  to  reveal  the  place 
of  their  origin.  Such,  for  instance,  is  the  case  with 
Cutler's  Volunteer  and  The  Thousand  and  Thirty- 
Seven  of  Halpine.  Even  the  dedication  of  Whittier's 
volume  entitled  In  War  Time,  dealing  as  it  does  with 
the  widespread  sorrow  reaching  then  every  home 
from  the  lakes  to  the  gulf,  might  as  easily  have  been 
written  by  a  Southern  fire-eater  as  by  a  Northern 
abolitionist.  In  truth  Ethel  Lynn  Beers's  All  Quiet 
Along  the  Potomac  has  been  claimed  by,  or  at  least 
has  been  attributed  to,  several  persons,  among  them 
one  who  was  a  Mississippian  and  another  a  Georgian. 
Furthermore,  to  this  day  it  has  not  been  definitely 

[  XXXIX  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


settled  from  which  quarter  came  the  popular  poem 
sometimes  entitled  Ciril  War  and  sometimes  The 
Fancy  Shot.  It  appeared  originally  in  the  London 
periodical,  Once  a  Week,  for  October  5,  1861.  There 
the  title  given  was  Civile  Bellum,  and  the  poem  itself 
was  signed  "From  the  Once  United  States."  In  this 
collection  I  have  followed  hesitatingly  the  authorities 
which  attribute  its  composition  to  Charles  Dawson 
Shanlcy. 

Among  the  poems  begotten  of  this  prolonged  con 
flict,  which  are  to  be  found  in  this  volume,  is  one 
which  I  have  included  with  hesitation  because  I  am 
ignorant  whether  its  author,  whoever  he  or  she  was, 
is  living  or  dead.  I  have  never  met  it  in  any  collec 
tion,  and  it  was  under  somewhat  peculiar  circum 
stances  that  I  came  across  it  myself.  On  the  march 
to  Gettysburg  the  army  had  gone  one  night  into 
camp,  when  I  picked  up  a  torn  piece  of  newspaper 
which  was  fluttering  about.  As  anything  to  be  read 
of  any  sort  was  then  far  from  abundant,  I  looked  it 
over.  From  the  character  of  the  contents  of  what 
little  had  been  preserved,  it  was  manifestly  an  anti- 
slavery  sheet,  though  there  was  nothing  left  to  tell 
which  one  it  was  of  the  several  then  published.  What 
arrested  my  attention,  however,  were  certain  verses 
headed,  if  I  remember  aright,  Home  Wounded.  At 
all  events,  the  production  was  manifestly  suggested 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


by  Gerald  Massey's  poem  with  that  title.  But  though 
it  reminded  one  of  it,  beyond  the  idea  underlying  its 
conception  it  was  indebted  to  it  for  only  two  or  three 
words  and  phrases. 

No  name  of  writer  appeared  on  this  torn  fragment 
as  I  found  it ;  in  fact,  no  space  was  left  for  one.  Even 
the  last  word  of  the  poem  had  disappeared,  though 
it  was  easily  supplied  by  the  sense  and  ryme.  It 
could  have  been  written  by  either  man  or  woman, 
though  in  my  ignorance  about  its  authorship  I 
should  attribute  it  to  a  woman.  It  was  further  char 
acteristic  of  the  similar  way  in  which  the  intense 
feeling  which  prevailed  on  both  sides  then  manifested 
itself,  that,  though  the  verses  appeared  in  an  anti- 
slavery  journal,  they  could  as  well  have  been  written 
in  the  South  as  in  the  North,  were  it  not  for  a  single 
line  in  the  last  stanza.  I  was  so  struck  at  the  time 
by  the  poem  that  I  cut  it  out  of  the  torn  piece  of 
paper  containing  it.  Naturally  this  soon  disap 
peared.  The  words,  however,  remained  in  my  mind. 
I  have  reproduced  them  from  memory,  and  though 
after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years  I  can  not  be  sure 
that  what  is  printed  here  is  an  absolutely  exact  tran 
script  of  the  lines  as  I  found  them,  I  am  confident 
that  it  is  not  much  out  of  the  way. 

Still  while  there  are  many  creditable  pieces  of 
poetry  that  owe  their  existence  to  the  passions 


[xli 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


aroused  by  the  Civil  War,  there  are  comparatively 
few  that  by  the  most  liberal  charity  attain  sufficient 
distinction  to  deserve  reception  in  the  most  hospitable 
of  anthologies.  Unfortunately  for  literature,  the 
expression  of  feeling  is  rarely  on  a  level  with  its 
intensity.  This  accounts  largely  for  the  inferiority 
of  national  hymns.  As  a  general  rule  these  are  not 
of  a  high  order  from  the  point  of  view  of  literature ; 
in  no  case  that  I  am  acquainted  with  are  they  of  the 
highest.  The  patriotism  of  men  has  to  supply  an 
inspiration  which  the  words  themselves  lack.  As 
such  poems  almost  invariably  owe  their  origin  to  the 
excitement  and  emotion  attending  some  passing 
moment  or  movement  there  is  little  chance  of  their 
ever  being  produced  to  order ;  for  though  the  order 
for  the  poetry  may  be  pecuniarily  high,  the  result  is 
little  likely  to  be  of  a  high  order  of  poetry. 

The  best  of  our  own  national  hymns — in  fact,  the 
only  one  worth  mentioning  for  its  verse — is  The  Star- 
Spangled  Banner.  This  need  not  fear  comparison  on 
its  literary  merits  with  other  productions  of  this 
class ;  but  it  is  hopelessly  handicapped  by  being  set 
to  a  tune,  in  part  of  which  no  respect  is  paid  to  the 
capabilities  of  the  ordinary  human  voice.  This  is  all 
the  more  to  be  regretted,  because  it  has  led  to  the 
frequent  employment  by  us  of  the  distinctively  Eng 
lish  national  air  as  if  it  were  our  own.  There  is 


xlii 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


nothing  more  impudent  in  the  history  of  plagiarism 
than  our  appropriation  of  God  Save  the  King  and 
dubbing  it  America.  Such  appropriations  have  not 
been  uncommon  with  individuals ;  but  it  is  apparently 
the  first  time  that  the  act  has  been  perpetrated  by  a 
people.  It  was  bad  enough  to  steal  the  tune;  but 
to  marry  it  to  the  feeble  words  which  were  set  to  it 
was  adding  insult  to  injury.  The  English  poem  is 
far  from  being  literature  of  a  high  type.  No  one  is 
likely  to  maintain  that 

Confound  their  politics, 
Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks, 

is  great  poetry.  But  it  means  something.  It  has 
vigor.  It  is  written  by  a  man  for  men,  and  it  con 
veys  the  feelings  of  men.  But  such  sentimental 
twaddle  as 

I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills, 

such  apostrophes  to  one's  country  as  "sweet  land  of 
liberty,"  is  a  sort  of  stuff  which  might  appeal  to  the 
feelings  of  a  body  of  gushing  schoolgirls,  but  is 
hopelessly  out  of  place  in  the  expression  of  fervent 
patriotic  sentiment.  The  wretchedness  of  taste  dis 
played  by  the  average  man  is  forced  painfully  upon 


a- 7m 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


the  attention  as  a  consequence  of  the  wide  acceptance 
which  these  vapid  verses  have  attained. 

No  limitations  beyond  the  consent  of  owners  of 
copyright  were  placed  upon  the  choice  of  poems  to 
be  included  in  this  volume  save  that  their  authors 
must  have  added  to  their  other  distinctions  the  all- 
essential  one  of  being  dead.  The  persistence  of  cer 
tain  persons  in  living  has  in  consequence  prevented 
me  from  inserting  here  a  number  of  poems  which  I 
should  have  been  particularly  glad  to  include.  Fur 
thermore,  a  few  pieces  which  I  was  anxious  to  insert 
have  been  reluctantly  left  out  because  of  the  inability 
to  ascertain  who  the  authors  of  them  were,  and  in 
consequence  whether  they  were  alive  or  dead  or 
whether  they  were  English  or  American.  Still,  after 
what  I  have  said  in  the  earlier  part  of  this  intro 
ductory  essay,  no  one  will  expect  me  to  assume  that 
even  with  the  allowances  that  ought  to  be  made,  the 
selections  here  given  will  recommend  themselves  to  the 
approval  of  all.  Especially  will  the  failure  to 
meet  the  views  and  tastes  of  many  show  itself  in  the 
case  of  the  more  recent  writers.  The  work  of  compila 
tion  would  in  truth  have  been  much  easier,  and  its 
outcome,  so  far  as  it  went,  would  have  been  likely  to 
prove  more  satisfactory,  had  the  collection  been 
limited  to  the  productions  of  such  authors  as  had 
died  by  the  beginning  of  the  present  century.  The 


xliv  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


work  of  our  closest  contemporaries  is  usually  hardest 
to  estimate  impartially.  Time  has  not  brought  suffi 
cient  familiarity  of  acquaintance  to  test,  nor  suffi 
cient  cumulativeness  of  judgment  to  decide  upon  the 
permanent  value  of  what  has  been  written.  One  must 
therefore  follow  one's  own  individual  preferences.  I 
have  indeed  striven  desperately  to  find  certain  poems 
admirable  which  others,  whose  judgment  I  respect, 
much  admire.  In  a  few  cases,  as  has  been  remarked 
already,  I  have  sufficiently  overcome  the  scruples  of 
my  literary  conscience  as  to  insert  them ;  but  in  gen 
eral  the  work  represents  my  own  taste  or,  if  critics 
so  prefer  to  consider  it,  my  want  of  taste. 

For  in  this  volume  no  small  number  of  authors  of 
more  or  less  note  in  American  literature  are  not 
represented  at  all.  These,  in  the  opinion  of  some,  if 
not  of  many,  ought  to  have  been  included.  Again, 
authors  who  have  been  included  will  be  found  repre 
sented  by  poems,  which  some,  and  perhaps  many, 
will  deem  no  better  tnan  others  omitted,  if  indeed  as 
good.  It  is  not  because  the  work  of  certain  well- 
known  names  is  in  itself  poor  that  they  are  not  found 
here.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  often  very  good — some 
of  it  indeed  so  good  that  an  editor  feels  at  times  a 
doubt  as  to  his  having  done  wisely  in  letting  it  go 
unrepresented.  Yet,  though  it  may  be  good  in 
general,  no  one  production  seems  to  stand  out  with 


xlv  ] 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


so  manifest  superiority  as  to  justify  its  insertion  into 
an  anthology.  They  are  all  excellent  in  their  way. 
But  each  and  every  one  of  them  lacks  distinctiveness, 
not  to  speak  of  distinction,  whether  that  distinctive- 
ness  be  of  pure  poetry  or  merely  that  of  wit  or 
humorous  observation,  or  quaint  conceit.  Still,  no 
sensible  man  will  venture  to  set  up  his  own  judgment 
as  an  infallible  standard.  All  he  can  hope  or  reason 
ably  expect  is  that  the  reader  who  regrets  not  to 
find  here  poems  which,  in  his  opinion,  ought  not  to 
have  been  excluded,  will  take  no  serious  exception  to 
the  large  majority  of  those  which  have  been  included. 


It  remains  to  say  one  word  about  the  methods 
adopted  in  the  preparation  of  this  volume.  An  effort 
has  been  made  to  follow,  as  far  as  practicable,  the 
latest  text  which  passed  under  the  author's  own 
supervision.  This  task  has  been  rendered  in  most 
instances  comparatively  easy  by  the  opportunity 
afforded  of  consulting  the  extraordinary  and  invalu 
able  collection  of  the  various  editions  of  American 
authors  which  has  been  presented  to  the  Yale  Univer 
sity  library  by  the  munificence  of  Owen  Franklin 
Aldis  of  the  Class  of  1874.  As  a  result  verbal  altera 
tions  have  been  made  at  times  from  what  is  perhaps 
to  many  the  familiar  reading.  These  collectively  are, 


[  xhi 


A  WORD  ABOUT  ANTHOLOGIES 


however,  neither  numerous  nor  important.  Further 
more,  thanks  are  due  in  particular  to  the  several 
American  publishers  who  have  granted  permission  to 
make  selections  from  works  of  which  they  own  the 
copyright.  Without  their  consent  the  publication 
of  this  work  would  have  been  impossible. 

T.  R.  L. 
August  1,  1912. 


[  xlvii  ] 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY 

Baby  Bell   427 

In  an  Atelier   433 

Nocturne    440 

On  an  Intaglio  Head  of  Minerva 438 

On  Lynn  Terrace 436 

Palabras  Carinosas 432 

Song  from  the  Persian  431 

ALLEN,  ELIZABETH  ANN  (CHASE)   (AKERS) 

Last    397 

Left  Behind   398 

Rock  Me  to  Sleep 395 

ANONYMOUS 

Home  Wounded    468 

BARLOW,  JOEL 

Babylonian  Captivity,  The.     Psalm  CXXXVII 3 

BROWN,  PHEBE  (HINSDALE) 

Private  Devotion 6 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN 

v  Battle-Field,  The    53 

Conqueror's  Grave,  The   60 

Crowded  Street,  The   56 

-'Death  of  the  Flowers,  The   46 

Forest  Hymn,  A  40 

Future  Life,  The    55 

June    44 

"Oh  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race" 58 

Past,   The    48 

Planting   of   the   Apple-Tree,   The 63 

Snow-Shower,  The    '. .  .  66 


xlix 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Song  of  Marion's  Men   51 

Thanatopsis     36 

To  a  Waterfowl    39 

BUNNER,  HENRY  CUYLER 

Atlantic  City   525 

Candor     517 

Chakey  Einstein    520 

Chaperon,  The    519 

Da  Capo    529 

Feminine    516 

Just    a    Love-Letter     531 

She  Was  a  Beauty   516 

Way  to  A  ready,  The   512 

Wed    ". 518 

BUTLER,  WILLIAM  ALLEN 

Incognita  of  Raphael,  The 346 

Nothing   to    Wear    348 

CARY,  PIKEBE 

Alas !     345 

Nearer   Home    344 

COFFIN,  ROBERT  BARRY 

Ships  at  Sea  379 

COOK,  MARC 

Her  Opinion  of  the  Play   510 

COOKE,  PHILIP  PENDLETON 

Florence    Vane    251 

COOKE,  ROSE   (TERRY) 

Two  Villages,  The    385 

CURTIS,  GEORGE  WILLIAM 

Egyptian  Serenade    343 

()  Listen  to  the  Sounding  Sea    342 

Spring    Song    342 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


CUTLER,  ELBRIDGE  JEFFERSON 

Volunteer,  The    394 

DOANE,  GEORGE  WASHINGTON 

Evening    72 

DRAKE,  JOSEPH  RODMAN 

American  Flag,  The 69 

DWIGHT,  TIMOTHY 

Love  to  the  Church 1 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO 

Borrowing     86 

Brahma    87 

Concord   Hymn    85 

Days    84 

Fable     83 

Heri,  Cras,   Hodie    86 

Humble-Bee,  The    80 

Poet     85 

Problem,  The    77 

Rhodora,  The  79 

Sacrifice     86 

Shakespeare    86 

To   Eva    84 

FIELD,  EUGENE 

Bibliomaniac's  Prayer,  The   498 

Dear  Old  London   494 

Dibdin's  Ghost     499 

Duel,  The    508 

Grandma's  Prayer    507 

In  Amsterdam   • 496 

Little    Peach,   The    503 

Lydia  Dick  504 

Preference  Declared,  The    507 

Tea-Gown,  The    .  502 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


GARRISON,  WILLIAM  LLOYD 
Freedom  for  the  Mind 


GILDER,  RICHARD  WATSON 

Ah,  Be  Not  False   ................................  492 

Heroic  Age,  The  ..................................  493 

Noel    .............................................  491 

Reform     ..........................................  49° 

River  Inn,  The    ...................................  489 

Songs    .........................................  •••  492 

Woman's  Thought,  A    .............................  488 

HALLECK,  FITZ-GREENE 

Alnwick   Castle    ...................................  14 

Burns    ............................................  18 

Connecticut     ......................................  30 

Marco  Bozzaris    ...................................  1° 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake  ............  25 

Red  Jacket   .......................................  26 

HALPINE,  CHARLES  GRAHAM 

Thousand  and  Thirty-Seven,  The  ...................  389 

HARTE,  FRANCIS  BRET 

Chiquita     .........................................  462 

Dow's  Flat    .......................................  456 

"Jim"    ............................................  460 

Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James    .............  454 

Society  upon  the  Stanislaus,  The  ...................  452 

What  the  Engines  Said  ............................  465 

HASTINGS,  THOMAS 

In  Sorrow   ........................................  8 

Latter  Day,  The  ..................................  7 

HAY,  JOHN 

Hymn  of  the  Knights  Templars   ...................  447 

Jim  Bludso  .......................................  443 

Mystery    of   Gilgal,   The    ..........................  445 


[  Hi  } 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  FEN  NO 

Mint  Julep,  The   93 

Monterey     92 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL 

Ballad  of  the  Oysterman,  The    216 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The   226 

Deacon's  Masterpiece,  The 218 

Dilemma,   The    195 

Last  Leaf,  The   193 

Lexington    203 

Music-Grinders,   The    200 

My  Aunt   197 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl  206 

Parting  Word,  The    210 

Philosopher  to  His  Love,  The   215 

"Qui  Vive"   223 

Star  and  the  Water-Lily,  The   213 

To  the  Portrait  of  "A  Lady" 199 

Under  the  Washington  Elm,  Cambridge    225 

Voice  of  the  Loyal  North,  A 228 

Voiceless,  The   224 

HOVEY,  RICHARD 

At  the  End  of  Day    539 

Faith  and  Fate   546 

Launa  Dee   541 

Sea  Gypsy,  The  540 

Unmanifest    Destiny    543 

Voices  of  Unseen  Spirits  545 

Wander-Lovers,  The    536 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic   317 

Our    Orders    318 

Summons,  The   319 


[  liii 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


HOWELLS,  ELIZABETH  (LLOYD) 

Milton's  Prayer  of  Patience   232 

INGALLS,  JOHN  JAMES 

Opportunity    426 

KEY,  FRANCIS  SCOTT 

Star-Spangled  Banner,  The 4 

LANIER,  SIDNEY 

Marshes    of   Glynn,    The    482 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee   480 

LARCOM,  LUCY 

Hannah  Binding  Shoes  377 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH 

Arsenal  at  Springfield,  The   H3 

Cumberland,   The    131 

Day  is  Done,  The  H9 

Endymion    1°8 

Excelsior    HI 

Footsteps  of  Angels    96 

Maidenhood     109 

My  Lost  Youth   127 

Nuremberg    H5 

Psalm  of  Life,  The 95 

Resignation     I-3 

Seaweed    121 

Skeleton  in  Armor,  The    99 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land  98 

Village  Blacksmith,  The  106 

Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports,  The   125 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL 

Auf  Wiedersehen    302 

Courtin',  The    270 

Credidimus   Jovem   Regnare    307 


liv] 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemoration,  July  21, 

1865     286 

Palinode     303 

Petition,  The    306 

Present  Crisis,  The    275 

Song— "O  Moonlight  Deep  and  Tender" 274 

Telepathy     306 

Washers  of  the  Shroud,  The  282 

What  Mr.  Robinson  Thinks    268 

Without  and  Within    304 

LYTLE,  WILLIAM  HAIXES 

Antony  and  Cleopatra    381 

MCMASTER,  GUY  HUMPHREYS 

Carmen    Bellicosum    387 

MESSINGER,  ROBERT  HIXCKLEY 

Winter  Wish,  A    234 

MOODY,  WILLIAM  VAUGHX 

Gloucester  Moors    556 

Ode  in   Time   of   Hesitation,   An    547 

O'HARA,  THEODORE 

Bivouac  of  the  Dead,  The  332 

PALMER,  JOHX  WILLIAMSON 

Fight  at  the  San  Jacinto,  The    361 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way  364 

PALMER,  RAY 

Faith     168 

PARSOXS,  THOMAS  WILLIAM 

Her   Epitaph    326 

Mary  Booth    325 

Obituary    327 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante   .  323 


[fe] 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Paradisi  Gloria   328 

Saint   Peray    329 

PERRY,  NORA 

After  the  Ball  477 

PIKE,  ALBERT 

Dixie    230 

PINKNEY,  EDWARD  COATE 

Health,  A    74 

Parting,   A    76 

Serenade,  A    73 

Song— "We  Break  the  Glass" 73 

Widow's  Song,  The    76 

PRATT,  GEORGE 

Pen  of  Steel,  A    401 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN 

Annabel    Lee    186 

Bells,  The    182 

Conqueror  Worm,  The   180 

Haunted  Palace,  The    178 

Raven,  The  170 

To    Helen    192 

To  One  in  Paradise  177 

Ulalume    188 

RANDALL,  JAMES  RYDER 

My   Maryland    449 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN 

Celestial  Army,  The    337 

Sheridan's  Ride     339 

Some  Things  Love  Me   336 

SARGENT,  EPES 

Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave,  A 239 


[  Ivi  ] 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


SAXE,  JOHN  GODFREY 

Bereavement     250 

Early   Rising    240 

Orpheus  and  Eurydice   245 

Polyphemus  and  Ulysses    242 

SHANLY,  CHARLES  DAWSON 

Fancy  Shot,  The   237 

SILL,  EDWARD  ROWLAND 

Coup  de  Grace,  The  476 

Fool's  Prayer,  The   470 

Lover's  Song,  The 475 

Momentous  Words    474 

Open  Window,  The 471 

To  a  Maid  Demure   473 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  CLARENCE 

Ballad  of  Lager  Bier,  The 406 

Edged   Tools    413 

Hypatia    422 

Kearny  at  Seven  Pines   420 

Pan  in  Wall  Street 403 

Provencal  Lovers    418 

Si  Jeunesse   Savait !    417 

Undiscovered  Country,  The  415 

World  Well  Lost,  The    416 

STODDARD,  RICHARD  HENRY 

Flight  of  Youth,  The 366 

Without  and  Within    367 

Woman's  Poem,  A   372 

STORY,  WILLIAM  WETMORE 

Black  Eyes   264 

Cleopatra     253 

In  the  Rain   266 

L'Abbate    .  260 


Ivii 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Praxiteles  and  Phryne 258 

Snowdrop     267 

TAPPAN,  WILLIAM  BINGHAM 

Hour  of  Peaceful  Rest,  The 35 

TIMROD,  HENRY 

Charleston     391 

Ode    393 

WAKEFIELD,  NANCY  AMELIA  WOODBURY  (PRIEST) 

Over  the  River   441 

WHITMAN,  WALT 

O  Captain  !  My  Captain !   321 

WTHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF 

Barbara  Frietchie  163 

Barclay  of  Ury 139 

Dedication  of  "In  War  Time" 159 

Ichabod    146 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  O.  Torrey 144 

Maud  Muller    148 

My  Playmate   153 

Old  Burying-Ground,  The   155 

Proem  to  Poems  of  1847 133 

Randolph  of  Roanoke  134 

Watchers,  The   160 

What  the  Birds  Said  166 

WILLARD,  EMMA  (HART) 

Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep   9 

WILLIS,  NATHANIEL  PARKER 

Love  in  a  Cottage    90 

Unseen  Spirits   89 


YALE  BOOK  OF  AMERICAN  VERSE 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT  J 1752-131 7 


Love  to  the  Church 

I  love  thy  kingdom,  Lord, 

The  house  of  thine  abode, 
The  church  our  blest  Redeemer  saved 

With  his  own  precious  blood. 

I  love  thy  church,,  O  God ! 

Her  walls  before  thee  stand, 
Dear  as  the  apple  of  thine  eye, 

And  graven  on  thy  hand. 

If  e'er  to  bless  thy  sons 

My  voice  or  hands  deny, 
These  hands  let  useful  skill  forsake, 

This  voice  in  silence  die. 

For  her  my  tears  shall  fall, 
For  her  my  prayers  ascend ; 

To  her  my  cares  and  toils  be  given 
Till  toils  and  cares  shall  end. 

Beyond  my  highest  joy 

I  prize  her  heavenly  ways, 
Her  sweet  communion,  solemn  vows, 

Her  hymns  of  love  and  praise. 

Jesus,  thou  friend  divine, 
Our  Saviour  and  our  King, 

Thy  hand  from  every  snare  and  foe 
Shall  great  deliverance  bring. 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT     1752-1817 


Sure  as  thy  truth  shall  last, 

To  Zion  shall  be  given 
The  brightest  glories  earth  can  yield, 

And  brighter  bliss  of  heaven. 


JOEL  BARLOW     1755-1812 


Psalm  CXXXVII 
The  Babylonian   Captivity 

Along  the  banks  where  Babel's   current   flows 
Our  captive  bands  in  deep  despondence  stray'd, 

While  Zion's  fall  in  sad  remembrance  rose, 

Her  friends,,  her  children  mingled  with  the  dead. 

The  tuneless  harp,  that  once  with  joy  we  strung, 
When  praise  employ'd  and  mirth  inspir'd  the  lay, 

In  mournful  silence  on  the  willows  hung; 

And  growing  grief  prolong'd  the  tedious  day. 

The  barbarous  tyrants,  to  increase  the  woe, 
With  taunting  smiles  a  song  of  Zion  claim; 

Bid  sacred  praise  in  strains  melodious  flow, 

While  they  blaspheme  the  great  Jehovah's  name. 

But  how,  in  heathen  chains  and  lands  unknown, 
Shall  Israel's  sons  a  song  of  Zion  raise? 

O  hapless  Salem,  God's  terrestrial  throne, 
Thou  land  of  glory,  sacred  mount  of  praise. 

If  e'er  my  memory  lose  thy  lovely  name, 
If  my  cold  heart  neglect  my  kindred  race, 

Let  dire  destruction  seize  this  guilty  frame; 
My  hand  shall  perish  and  my  voice  shall  cease. 

Yet  shall  the  Lord,  who  hears  when  Zion  calls, 
O'ertake  her  foes  with  terror  and  dismay, 

His  arm  avenge  her  desolated  walls, 
And  raise  her  children  to  eternal  day. 


[3] 


FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY     1779-1843 


The  S tar-Spangled  Banner 

O  say,,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleam 
ing? 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars  through  the  perilous 

fight, 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly  stream 
ing; 

And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave   proof   through   the   night  that   our   flag   was    still 

there ; 

O  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  the  shore  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream ; 
Tis  the  star-spangled  banner ;  O  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  wrar  and  the  battle's  confusion 

A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution. 


[4] 


FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY     1779-1843 


No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave, 
From  the  terror  of  flight  and  the  gloom  of  the  grave; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

O !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 
Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desolation ! 
Blest   with   victory   and   peace,   may   the   heav'n-rescued 

land, 
Praise  the   power  that  hath  made   and   preserved  us   a 

nation. 

Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just. 
And  this  be  our  motto — "In  God  is  our  trust;" 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 


PHEBE  (HINSDALE)  BROWN     1783-1861 


Private  Devotion 

I  love  to  steal  awhile  away 
From  every  cumbering  care, 

And  spend  the  hours  of  setting  day 
In  humble,  grateful  prayer. 

I  love,  in  solitude,  to  shed 

The  penitential  tear; 
And  all  His  promises  to  plead, 

When  none  but  God  can  hear. 

I  love  to  think  on  mercies  past, 

And  future  good  implore; 
And  all  my  cares  and  sorrows  cast 

On  Him  whom  I  adore. 

I  love,  by  faith,  to  take  a  view 
Of  brighter  scenes  in  heaven; 

The  prospect  doth  my  strength  renew, 
While  here  by  tempests  driven. 

Thus,  when  life's  toilsome  day  is  o'er, 

May  its  departing  ray 
Be  calm  as  this  impressive  hour, 

And  lead  to  endless  day. 


THOMAS  HASTINGS     1784-1872 


The  Latter  Day 

Hail  to  the  brightness  of  Zion's  glad  morning; 

Joy  to  the  lands  that  in  darkness  have  lain; 
Hushed  be  the  accents  of  sorrow  and  mourning ; 

Zion  in  triumph  begins  her  mild  reign ! 

Hail  to  the  brightness  of  Zion's  glad  morning, 
Long  by  the  prophets  of  Israel  foretold; 

Hail  to  the  millions  from  bondage  returning; 
Gentiles  and  Jews  the  blest  vision  behold ! 

Lo,  in  the  desert  rich  flowers  are  springing; 

Streams  ever  copious  are  gliding  along; 
Loud  from  the  mountain-tops  echoes  are  ringing; 

Wastes  rise  in  verdure,  and  mingle  in  song. 

See,  from  all  lands,  from  the  isles  of  the  ocean, 
Praise  to  Jehovah  ascending  on  high; 

Fallen  are  the  engines  of  war  and  commotion ; 
Shouts  of  salvation  are  rending  the  sky ! 


THOMAS  HASTINGS     1784-1873 


In  Sorrow 

Gently,,  Lord,  oh,  gently  lead  us, 

Pilgrims  in  this  vale  of  tears, 
Through  the  trials  yet  decreed  us, 

Till  our  last  great  change  appears. 
When  temptation's  darts  assail  us, 

When  in  devious  paths  we  stray, 
Let  thy  goodness  never  fail  us, 

Lead  us  in  thy  perfect  way. 

In  the  hour  of  pain  and  anguish, 

In  the  hour  when  death  draws  near, 
Suffer  not  our  hearts  to  languish, 

Suffer  not  our  souls  to  fear; 
And,  when  mortal  life  is  ended, 

Bid  us  in  thine  arms  to  rest, 
Till,  by  angel  bands  attended, 

We  awake  among  the  blest. 


EMMA   (HART)  WILLARD     1787-1870 


Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep 

Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep 
I  lay  me  down  in  peace  to  sleep ; 
Secure  I  rest  upon  the  wave, 
For  Thou,  O  Lord !  hast  power  to  save. 
I  know  Thou  wilt  not  slight  my  call, 
For  Thou  dost  mark  the  sparrow's  fall; 
And  calm  and  peaceful  shall  I  sleep, 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 

When  in  the  dead  of  night  I  lie 
And  gaze  upon  the  trackless  sky, 
The  star-bespangled  heavenly  scroll, 
The  boundless  waters  as  they  roll, — 
I  feel  Thy  wondrous  power  to  save 
From  perils  of  the  stormy  wave: 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep, 
I  calmly  rest  and  soundly  sleep. 

And  such  the  trust  that  still  were  mine, 
Though  stormy  winds  swept  o'er  the  brine, 
Or  though  the  tempest's  fiery  breath 
Roused  me  from  sleep  to  wreck  and  death. 
In  ocean  cave,  still  safe  with  Thee 
The  germ  of  immortality ! 
And  calm  and  peaceful  shall  I  sleep, 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


Marco  Bozzaris 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power; 
In  dreams,,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet-ring: 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne — a  king; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood — 

On  old  Plataea's  day; 

And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke: 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 

"To  arms!  they  come!  the  Greek!  the  Greek!' 


[10 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 

He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band: 
"Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires; 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires; 

God — and  your  native  land  !" 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain, 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal-chamber,  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm; 

[11} 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 

Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 
With  banquet-song,  and  dance  and  wine; 

And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 

The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier ; 

And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 
Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought — 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men: 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land  wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange  groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

Bozzaris !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 

Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 
Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree, 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb: 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone. 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells ; 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch  and  cottage  bed ; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears : 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys,, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  her  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh: 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's; 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


(IS 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


Alnzvick  Castle 

Home  of  the  Percys'  high-born  race, 

Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave, 
Alike  their  birth  and  burial  place, 

Their  cradle  and  their  grave ! 
Still  sternly  o'er  the  castle  gate 
Their  house's  Lion  stands  in  state, 

As  in  his  proud  departed  hours ; 
And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high, 
And  feudal  banners  "flout  the  sky" 

Above  his  princely  towers. 

A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines, 

Lovely  in  England's  fadeless  green, 
To  meet  the  quiet  stream  which  winds 

Through  this  romantic  scene 
As  silently  and  sweetly  still, 
As  when,  at  evening,  on  that  hill, 

While  summer's  wind  blew  soft  and  low, 
Seated  by  gallant  Hotspur's  side, 
His  Katherine  was  a  happy  bride, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

Gaze  on  the  Abbey's  ruined  pile: 

Does  not  the  succoring  ivy,  keeping 

Her  watch  around  it,  seem  to  smile, 
As  o'er  a  loved  one  sleeping? 

One  solitary  turret  gray 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glory, 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 

The  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day, 

The  Percys'  proudest  border  story. 
That  day  its  roof  was  triumph's  arch; 

Then  rang,  from  isle  to  pictured  dome, 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier's  march, 

The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum; 
And  babe,  and  sire,  the  old,  the  young, 
And  the  monk's  hymn,  and  minstrel's  song, 
And  woman's  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long, 

Welcomed  her  warrior  home. 

Wild  roses  by  the  Abbey  towers 

Are  gay  in  their  young  bud  and  bloom: 
They  were  born  of  a  race  of  funeral  flowers 
That  garlanded,  in  long-gone  hours, 

A  templar's  knightly  tomb. 
He  died,  the  sword  in  his  mailed  hand, 
On  the  holiest  spot  of  the  Blessed  land, 

Where  the  Cross  was  damped  with  his  dying  breath; 
When  blood  ran  free  as  festal  wine, 
And  the  sainted  air  of  Palestine 

Was  thick  with  the  darts  of  death. 

Wise  with  the  lore  of  centuries, 

What  tales,  if  there  be  "tongues  in  trees," 

Those  giant  oaks  could  tell, 
Of  beings  born  and  buried  here; 
Tales  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer, 
Tales  of  the  bridal  and  the  bier, 

The  welcome  and  farewell, 


[15] 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


Since  on  their  boughs  the  startled  bird 
First,  in  her  twilight  slumbers,  heard 
The  Norman's  curfew-bell ! 

I  wandered  through  the  lofty  halls 

Trod  by  the  Percys  of  old  fame, 
And  traced  upon  the  chapel  walls 

Each  high  heroic  name, 
From  him  who  once  his  standard  set 
Where  now,  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 

Glitter  the  Sultan's  crescent  moons ; 
To  him  who,  when  a  younger  son, 
Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington, 

A  major  of  dragoons. 

That  last  half  stanza — it  has  dashed 
From  my  warm  lips  the  sparkling  cup ; 

The  light  that  o'er  my  eyebeam  flashed, 
The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up 

Above  this  bank-note  world — is  gone; 

And  Alnwick's  but  a  market  town, 

And  this,  alas !  its  market  day, 

And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way; 

Oxen  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 

Northumbrian  boors  and  plaided  Scots, 
Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line ; 

From  Teviot's  bard  and  hero  land, 

From  royal  Berwick's  beach  of  sand, 

From  Wooller,  Morpeth,  Hexham,  and 
Newrcastle-upon-Tyne. 


[1G 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 

These  are  not  the  romantic  times 
So  beautiful  in  Spenser's  rhymes, 

So  dazzling  to  the  dreaming  boy: 
Ours  are  the  days  of  fact,,  not  fable, 
Of  knights,  but  not  of  the  round  table, 

Of  Bailie  Jarvie,  not  Rob  Roy: 
'T  is  what  "our  President"  Monroe 

Has  called  "the  era  of  good  feeling" : 
The  Highlander,  the  bitterest  foe 
To  modern  laws,  has  felt  their  blow, 
Consented  to  be  taxed,  and  vote, 
And  put  on  pantaloons  and  coat, 

And  leave  off  cattle-stealing: 
Lord  Stafford  mines  for  coal  and  salt, 
The  Duke  of  Norfolk  deals  in  malt, 

The  Douglas  in  red  herrings ; 
And  noble  name  and  cultured  land, 
Palace^  and  park,  and  vassal  band, 
Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Rothschild  or  the  Barings. 

The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 
Has  come :  to-day  the  turbaned  Turk 
(Sleep,  Richard  of  the  lion  heart! 
Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start), 

Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally ; 
The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 
And  on  the  Cross  and  altar-stone, 
And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on, 


[17 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 

And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek, 
And  sees  the  Christian  father  die ; 

And  not  a  sabre-blow  is  given 

For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heaven, 
By  Europe's  craven  chivalry. 

You  11  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 

In  the  armed  pomp  of  feudal  state? 
The  present  representatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  "gentle  Kate/' 
Are  some  half-dozen  serving-men 
In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penn; 

A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye, 
And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  nature's  aristocracy; 
And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal, 
Who  bowed  me  through  court,  bower,  and  hall, 
From  donjon-keep  to  turret  wall, 

For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 


Burns 

To  a  Rose,  brought  from  near  Alloway  Kirk,  in  Ayr 
shire,  in  the  Autumn  of  1822 

Wild  rose  of  Alloway !  my  thanks ; 

Thou  'mindst  me  of  that  autumn  noon 
When  first  we  met  upon  "the  banks 

And  braes  o'  bonny  Doon." 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


Like  thine,  beneath  the  thorn-tree's  bough, 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief, 

We  Ve  crossed  the  winter  sea,  and  thou 
Art  withered — flower  and  leaf. 

And  will  not  thy  death-doom  be  mine — 
The  doom  of  all  things  wrought  of  clay — 

And  withered  my  life's  leaf  like  thine, 
Wild  rose  of  Alloway? 

Not  so  his  memory, — for  whose  sake 
My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long, 

His — who  a  humbler  flower  could  make 
Immortal  as  his  song. 

The  memory  of  Burns — a  name 

That  calls,  when  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 
A  nation's  glory  and  her  shame, 

In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation's  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot — she  's  canonized  his  mind; 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  human  kind. 

I  Ve  stood  beside  the  cottage-bed 

Where  the  Bard-peasant  first  drew  breath ; 

A  straw-thatched  roof  above  his  head, 
A  straw-wrought  couch  beneath. 


[19] 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 

His  monument — that  tells  to  Heaven 

The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 
To  that  Bard-peasant  given ! 

Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot,, 
Boy-Minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming  hour; 

And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 
A  Poet's  pride  and  power : 

The  pride  that  lifted  Burns  from  earth, 
The  power  that  gave  a  child  of  song 

Ascendency  o'er  rank  and  birth,, 
The  rich,  the  brave,  the  strong ; 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 

Thy  spirit's  fluttering  pinions  then, 

Despair — thy  name  is  written  on 
The  roll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 

And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 
Purer  and  holier  fires: 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death ; 

Few  nobler  ones  than  Burns  are  there; 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 

Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 

Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 
Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek; 

And  his  that  music,  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 
Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 

And  listened,  and  believed,  and  felt 
The  Poet's  mastery 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its  showers, 

O'er  Passion's  moments  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  Reason's  dark,  cold  hours ; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "die  or  do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
From  throne  to  cottage-hearth? 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eye  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 

When  "Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled," 
Or  "Auld  Lang  Syne"  is  sung ! 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1T90-1867 


Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 

Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise, 

And  dreams  of  youth,,  and  truth,  and  love, 
With  "Logan's"  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 

And  Burns — though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod, 

Lived — died — in  form  and  soul  a  Man, 
The  image  of  his  God. 

Through  care  and  pain,  and  want,  and  woe, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal, 

Tortures — the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel ; 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 

And  moved,  in  manhood  as  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 


22  ] 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 
A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 

A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 
Of  coward  and  of  slave; 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow, 
Were  written  in  his  manly  eye 

And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard !  his  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man !  a  nation  stood 
Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 

Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 
As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  hallowed  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 
Though  with  the  buried  gone. 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1T90-1867 


Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim  shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 

Sages,  with  wisdom's  garland  wreathed, 

Crowned  kings,  and  mitred  priests  of  power, 

And  warriors  with  their  bright  swords  sheathed, 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour; 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 

Is  lit  by  Fortune's  dimmer  star, 
Are  there — o'er  wave  and  mountain  come, 

From  countries  near  and  far; 

Pilgrims  whose  wandering  feet  have  pressed 
The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's  sand, 

Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  West, 
My  own  green  forest-land. 

All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 

Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  fields  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Boon's  low  trees, 
And  pastoral  Nith,  and  wooded  Ayr, 

And  round  thy  sepulchres,  Dumfries  ! 
The  poet's  tomb  is  there. 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art, 

His  funeral  columns,  wreaths  and  urns? 

Wear  they  not  graven  on  the  heart 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns? 


On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 
Friend  of  my  better  days  ! 

None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

And  long  where  thou  art  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth; 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

Who  shared  thy  j  oy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine: 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow,, 
But  I  've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  can  not  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


Red  Jacket 

Cooper.,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven, 
First  in  her  files,  her  Pioneer  of  mind — 

A  wanderer  now  in  other  climes,  has  proven 
His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind; 

And  throned  her  in  the  senate-hall  of  nations, 
Robed  like  the  deluge  rainbow,  heaven-wrought; 

Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations, 

And  beautiful  as  its  green  world  of  thought: 

And  faithful  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  quoted 
As  law  authority,  it  passed  nem.  con.; 

He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have  voted, 
The  most  enlightened  people  ever  known. 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


That  all  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 

In  Paris,,  full  of  song,  and  dance,  and  laugh; 

And  that,  from  Orleans  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
There's  not  a  bailiff  or  an  epitaph ; 

And  furthermore — in  fifty  years,  or  sooner, 
We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine; 

And  our  brave  fleet,  eight  frigates  and  a  schooner, 
Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zembla  to  the  Line. 

If  he  were  with  me,  King  of  Tuscarora  ! 

Gazing,  as  I,  upon  thy  portrait  now, 
In  all  its  medalled,  fringed,  and  beaded  glory, 

Its  eye's  dark  beauty,  and  its  thoughtful  brow — 

Its  brow,  half  martial  and  half  diplomatic, 
Its  eye,  upsoaring  like  an  eagle's  wings, 

Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  Democratic, 
Outrival  Europe,  even  in  our  Kings ! 

For  thou  wast  monarch  born.     Tradition's  pages 
Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree, 

But  that  the  forest  tribes  have  bent  for  ages 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject  knee. 

Thy  name  is  princely — if  no  poet's  magic 

Could  make  Red  Jacket  grace  an  English  rhyme, 

Though  some  one  with  a  genius  for  the  tragic 
Hath  introduced  it  in  a  pantomine, 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 
Of  thine  own  land ,  and  on  her  herald-roll ; 

As  bravely  fought  for,,  and  as  proud  a  token 
As  Creur  de  Lion's  of  a  warrior's  soul. 

Thy  garb — though  Austria's  bosom-star  would  frighten 
That  medal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark  mine, 

And  George  the  Fourth  wore,  at  his  court  at  Brighton, 
A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than  thine ; 

Yet  't  is  a  brave  one,  scorning  wind  and  weather, 
And  fitted  for  thy  couch,  on  field  and  flood, 

As  Rob  Roy's  tartan  for  the  Highland  heather, 
Or  forest  green  for  England's  Robin  Hood. 

Is  strength  a  monarch's  merit,  like  a  whaler's  ? 

Thou  art  as  tall,  as  sinewy,  and  as  strong 
As  earth's  first  kings — the  Argo's  gallant  sailors, 

Heroes  in  history  and  gods  in  song. 

Is  beauty  ? — Thine  has  with  thy  youth  departed ; 

But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's  years, 
And  she  who  perished,  young  and  broken-hearted, 

Are — but  I  rhyme  for  smiles  and  not  for  tears. 

Is  eloquence? — Her  spell  is  thine  that  reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sport; 

And  there's  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in  thy  speeches, 
The  secret  of  their  mastery — they  are  short. 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 

The  monarch  mind,  the  mystery  of  commanding, 
The  birth-hour  gift,  the  art  Napoleon, 

Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wielding,  banding 
The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one : 

Thou  hast  it.     At  thy  bidding  men  have  crowded 

The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival; 
And  minstrels,  at  their  sepulchres,  have  shrouded 

With  banner-folds  of  glory  the  dark  pall. 

Who  will  believe  ?     Not  I — for  in  deceiving 

Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful  dream; 

I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 

That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they  seem; 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 
Would,  like  the  Patriarch's,  soothe  a  dying  hour, 

With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing, 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlit  bower; 

With  look  like  patient  Job's  eschewing  evil; 

With  motions  graceful  as  a  bird's  in  air ; 
Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  clinched  fingers  in  a  captive's  hair ! 

That  in  thy  breast  there  springs  a  poison  fountain 
Deadlier  than  that  where  bathes  the  Upas-tree ; 

And  in  thy  wrath,  a  nursing  cat-o'-mountain 

Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep  compared  with  thee ! 


[29] 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


And  underneath  that  face,  like  summer  ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 

Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow — all  save  fear. 

Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter, 
Her  pipe  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in  wars ; 

Hatred — of  missionaries  and  cold  water; 
Pride — in  thy  rifle  trophies  and  thy  scars ; 

Hope — that  thy  wrongs  may  be,  by  the  Great  Spirit, 
Remembered  and  revenged  when  thou  art  gone; 

Sorrow — that  none  are  left  thee  to  inherit 

Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and  thy  throne! 


Connecticut 

— Still  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea 

That  crouches  at  their  feet,  a  conquered  wave ; 

'T  is  a  rough  land  of  earth,  and  stone,  and  tree, 
Where  breathes  no  castled  lord  or  cabined  slave ; 

Where  thoughts,  and  tongues,  and  hands  are  bold  and 

free, 
And  friends  will  find  a  welcome,  foes  a  grave; 

And  where  none  kneel,  save  when  to  Heaven  they  pray, 

Nor  even  then,  unless  in  their  own  way. 


30] 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 


Theirs  is  a  pure  republic,  wild,  yet  strong, 
A  "fierce  democracie,"  where  all  are  true 

To  what  themselves  have  voted — right  or  wrong — 
And  to  their  laws,  denominated  blue; 

(If  red,  they  might  to  Draco's  code  belong)  ; 
A  vestal  state,  which  power  could  not  subdue, 

Nor  promise  win — like  her  own  eagle's  nest, 

Sacred — the  San  Marino  of  the  West. 

A  justice  of  the  peace,  for  the  time  being, 

They  bow  to,  but  may  turn  him  out  next  year: 

They  reverence  their  priest,  but  disagreeing 
In  price  or  creed,  dismiss  him  without  fear ; 

They  have  a  natural  talent  for  foreseeing 

And  knowing  all  things ;  and  should  Park  appear 

From  his  long  tour  in  Africa,  to  show 

The  Niger's  source,  they  'd  meet  him  with — "we  know !" 

They  love  their  land,  because  it  is  their  own, 
And  scorn  to  give  aught  other  reason  why ; 

Would  shake  hands  with  a  king  upon  his  throne, 
And  think  it  kindness  to  his  majesty; 

A  stubborn  race,  fearing  and  flattering  none. 
Such  are  they  nurtured,  such  they  live  and  die : 

All — but  a  few  apostates,  who  are  meddling 

With  merchandise,  pounds,  shillings,  pence  and  peddling ; 

Or  wandering  through  the  southern  countries  teaching 
The  ABC  from  Webster's  spelling-book ; 

Gallant  and  godly,  making  love  and  preaching, 
And  gaining,  by  what  they  call  "hook  and  crook," 


31] 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 

And  what  the  moralists  call  over-reaching, 

A  decent  living.     The  Virginians  look 
Upon  them  with  as  favorable  eyes 
As  Gabriel  on  the  devil  in  Paradise. 

But  these  are  but  their  outcasts.     View  them  near 
At  home,  where  all  their  worth  and  pride  is  placed; 

And  there  their  hospitable  fires  burn  clear, 

And  there  the  lowliest  farmhouse  hearth  is  graced 

With  manly  hearts,  in  piety  sincere, 

Faithful  in  love,  in  honor  stern  and  chaste, 

In  friendship  warm  and  true,  in  danger  brave, 

Beloved  in  life,  and  sainted  in  the  grave. 

And  minds  have  there  been  nurtured,  whose  control 

Is  felt  even  in  the  nation's  destiny; 
Men  who  swayed  senates  with  a  statesman's  soul, 

And  looked  on  armies  with  a  leader's  eye; 
Names  that  adorn  and  dignify  the  scroll, 

Whose  leaves  contain  their  country's  history, 
And  tales  of  love  and  war — listen  to  one 
Of  the  Green-Mountaineer — the  Stark  of  Bennington. 

When  on  that  field  his  band  the  Hessians  fought, 
Briefly  he  spoke  before  the  fight  began : 

"Soldiers !      Those  German  gentlemen  are  bought 
For  four  pounds  eight  and  sevenpence  per  man, 

By  England's  king;  a  bargain,  as  is  thought. 

Are  we  worth  more  ?     Let 's  prove  it  now  we  can ; 

For  we  must  beat  them,  boys,  ere  set  of  sun, 

Or  Mary  Stark  's  a  widow."     It  was  done. 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK     1790-1867 

Hers  are  not  Tempe's  nor  Arcadia's  spring, 

Nor  the  long  summer  of  Cathayan  vales, 
The  vines,  the  flowers,  the  air,  the  skies,  that  fling 

Such  wild  enchantment  o'er  Boccaccio's  tales 
Of  Florence  and  the  Arno;  yet  the  wing 

Of  life's  best  angel,  Health,  is  on  her  gales 
Through  sun  and  snow;  and,  in  the  autumn  time 
Earth  has  no  purer  and  no  lovelier  clime. 

Her  clear,  warm  heaven  at  noon, — the  mist  that  shrouds 
Her  twilight  hills — her  cool  and  starry  eves, 

The  glorious  splendor  of  her  sunset  clouds, 
The  rainbow  beauty  of  her  forest  leaves, 

Come  o'er  the  eye,  in  solitude  and  crowds, 
Where'er  his  web  of  song  her  poet  weaves ; 

And  his  mind's  brightest  vision  but  displays 

The  autumn  scenery  of  his  boyhood's  days. 

And  when  you  dream  of  woman,  and  her  love; 

Her  truth,  her  tenderness,  her  gentle  power; 
The  maiden,  listening  in  the  moonlight  grove, 

The  mother,  smiling  in  her  infant's  bower; 
Forms,  features,  worshipped  while  we  breathe  or  move, 

Be  by  some  spirit  of  your  dreaming  hour 
Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  through  the  air 
To  the  green  land  I  sing,  then  wake,  you  '11  find  them 
there. 


JOHN  HOWARD  PAYXE     1791-lSo? 


Home,  Siceet  Home 
From  the  Opera  of  "Clan,  the  Maid  of  Milan" 

Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roarn, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble  there's  no  place  like  home ! 
A  charm  from  the  sky  seems  to  hallow  us  there. 
Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with  else 
where. 

Home  !  home  !  sweet,  sweet  home  ! 

There  's  no  place  like  home ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain: 
O,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again ! 
The  birds  singing  gayly  that  came  at  my  call : — 
Give  me  them, — and  the  peace  of  mind  dearer  than  all ! 

Home!  home!  sweet,  sweet  home! 

There  's  no  place  like  home ! 

How  sweet  't  is  to  sit  'neath  a  fond  father's  smile, 
And  the  cares  of  a  mother  to  soothe  and  beguile! 
Let  others  delight  mid  new  pleasures  to  roam, 
But  give  me,  oh,  give  me,  the  pleasures  of  home ! 

Home  !  home  !  sweet,  sweet  home ! 

There  's  no  place  like  home ! 

To  thee  I  '11  return,  overburdened  with  care ; 
The  heart's  dearest  solace  will  smile  on  me  there; 
No  more  from  that  cottage  again  will  I  roam ; 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there  's  no  place  like  home. 

Home  !  home !  sweet,  sweet  home ! 

There  's  no  place  like  home ! 


WILLIAM  BINGHAM  TAPPAN     1794-1849 

The  Hour  of  Peaceful  Rest 

There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest 

To  mourning  wanderers  given ; 

There  is  a  joy  for  souls  distrest, 

A  balm  for  every  wounded  breast,, 

'T  is  found  alone  in  heaven. 

There  is  a  soft,  a  downy  bed, 

Far  from  these  shades  of  even — 
A  couch  for  weary  mortals  spread, 
Where  they  may  rest  the  aching  head, 
And  find  repose,  in  heaven. 

There  is  a  home  for  weary  souls 

By  sin  and  sorrow  driven; 
When  tossed  on  life's  tempestuous  shoals, 
Where  storms  arise,  and  ocean  rolls, 

And  all  is  drear  but  heaven. 

There  faith  lifts  up  her  cheerful  eye, 

To  brighter  prospects  given ; 
And  views  the  tempest  passing  by, 
The  evening  shadows  quickly  fly, 
And  all  serene  in  heaven. 

There  fragrant  flowers  immortal  bloom, 

And  joys  supreme  are  given; 
There  rays  divine  disperse  the  gloom: 
Beyond  the  confines  of  the  tomb 
Appears  the  dawn  of  heaven. 

[85] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 


Thanatopsis 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,,  she  speaks 
A  various  language;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart; — 
Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a  still  voice — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements; 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 


[36] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world, — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth, — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun ;  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man !     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings, — yet  the  dead  are  there: 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 


WILLIAM  CULLEX  BRYANT     1794-1878 

In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest ;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 
The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  j  oin 
The  innumerable  caravan  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

To  a  Waterfowl 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 


[39 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


A  Forest  Hymn 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them — ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems ;  in  the  darkling  .wood, 
Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 
Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in  heaven 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 
And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 


40] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 

Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised?     Let  me,  at  least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 

Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy  if  it  find 

Acceptance  in  His  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 

Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  in  thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  towards  heaven.     The  century-living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     These  dim  vaults, 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here — thou  fill'st 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music ;  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath 
That  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place 
Comes,  scarcely  felt;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 
The  fresh  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  thee. 


[41 


WILLIAM  CULLEX  BRYANT     1794-1878 

Here  is  continual  worship; — Nature,  here, 

In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 

Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly,  around, 

From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its  herbs, 

Wells  softly  forth  and  wandering  steeps  the  roots 

Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 

Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 

Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 

Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace, 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.     This  mighty  oak, — 

By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 

In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate  forest  flower, 

With  scented  breath  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 

A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 

That  are  the  soul  of  this  great  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works  I  read 


[42 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo !  all  grow  old  and  die — but  see  again. 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses, — ever-gay  and  beautiful  youth 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     O,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms:  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch-enemy  Death — yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne — the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them; — and  there  have  been  holy  men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 
And  tremble  and  are  still.     O  God !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,,  or  fill, 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages;  when,,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
O,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wratli 
Of  the  mad,  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


June 

I  gazed  upon  the  glorious  sky 

And  the  green  mountains  round, 
And  thought  that  when  I  came  to  lie 

At  rest  within  the  ground, 
'T  were  pleasant,,  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  send  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich,  green  mountain-turf  should  break. 

[44] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould, 

A  coffin  borne  through  sleet, 
And  icy  clods  above  it  rolled, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat — 
Away ! — I  will  not  think  of  these — 
Blue  be'the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze, 

Earth  green  beneath  the  feet, 
And  be  the  damp  mould  gently  pressed 
Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 

There  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  close  beside  my  cell; 

The  idle  butterfly 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife  bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 

Come,  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  song  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon 

With  fairy  laughter  blent? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

[45] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

I  know  that  I  no  more  should  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me,, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 
The  thought  of  what  has  been, 

And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 
The  gladness  of  the  scene; 

Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 
Is  that  his  grave  is  green; 

And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 

To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 


The  Death  of  the  Flowers 

The  melancholy  days  have  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 
Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown 

and  sere; 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn  leaves  lie 

dead; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread ; 


[46] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs 

the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the 

gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately 

sprang  and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood? 
Alas !   they   all  are  in  their  graves,  the   gentle  race  of 

flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds  with  the  fair  and  good  of 

ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold  November 

rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 
And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer 

glow; 

But  on  the  hill  the  goldenrod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook  in  autumn  beauty 

stood, 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the 

plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was   gone,   from  up 
land,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such 

days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter 

home ; 


WILLIAM  CULLEX  BRYANT     1794-1878 


When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the 

trees  are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance 

late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no 

more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my 

side. 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forests  cast- 

the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so 

brief: 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young  friend  of 

ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 


The  Past 

Thou  unrelenting  Past ! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark  domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 

[48] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth,, 
Youth,,  Manhood,,  Age  that  draws  us  to  the  ground, 

And  last,  Man's  Life  on  earth,, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years ; 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends,  the  good,  the  kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears — 
The  venerable  form,  the  exalted  mind. 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back — yearns  with  desire  intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives  thence. 

In  vain ;  thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  depart; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back — nor  to  the  broken  heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown ;  to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea ; 

Labors  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublished  charity,  unbroken  faith, 

Love,  that  midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  faltered  not  in  death. 

[49] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,,  unuttered,  unrevered; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappeared. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they — 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last : 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past ! 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perished — no ! 
Kind  words,  remembered  voices  once  so  sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat. 

All  shall  come  back;  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again ; 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 
And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave — the  beautiful  and  young. 

[50] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1T94-1878 


Song  of  Marion's  Men 

Our  band  is  few  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear: 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 


[51] 


WILLIAM  CULLEX  BRYANT     1794-1878 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil; 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knowrs  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'T  is  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlit  plain; 
'T  is  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp — 

A  moment — and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs ; 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming., 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton, 

Forever,  from  our  shore. 


The  Bat  tie-Field 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave — 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill. 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine,  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry, — 

O,  be  it  never  heard  again ! 


[53 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 


Soon  rested  those  who  fought;  but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now,, 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year; 

A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 

Hang  on  thy  front,  and  flank,  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof,, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot,, 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof,, 

The  sage  may  frown — yet  faint  thou  not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast,, 
The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again; 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 


[54 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 


The  Future  Life 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 

The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead, 
When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps 

And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread  ? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not; 

Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 
In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought. 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there? 

That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs  to  me  were  given- 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy  prayer, 

And  wilt  thou  never  utter  it  in  heaven? 

In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life-breathing  wind, 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here? 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  stormy  past, 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last, 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no  more  ? 


[55] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,,  and  larger  light., 

Await  thee  there,  for  thou  hast  bowed  thy  will 

In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I  dwell 

Shrink  and  consume  my  heart  as  heat  the  scroll; 

And  wrath  has  left  its  scar — that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  soul. 

Yet,  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name, 

The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle  eye, 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate,  yet  the  same? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  calmer  home, 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this — 

The  wisdom  which  is  love — till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss  ? 


The  Crowded  Street 

Let  me  move  slowly  through  the  street, 
Filled  with  an  ever-shifting  train, 

Amid  the  sound  of  steps  that  beat 

The  murmuring  walks  like  autumn  rain. 

How  fast  the  flitting  figures  come ! 

The  mild,  the  fierce,  the  stony  face ; 
Some  bright  with  thoughtless  smiles,  and  some 

Where  secret  tears  have  left  their  trace. 


56] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 


They  pass — to  toil,  to  strife,  to  rest; 

To  halls  in  which  the  feast  is  spread; 
To  chambers  where  the  funeral  guest 

In  silence  sits  beside  the  dead. 

And  some  to  happy  homes  repair, 

Where  children,  pressing  cheek  to  cheek, 

With  mute  caresses  shall  declare 
The  tenderness  they  cannot  speak. 

And  some,  who  walk  in  calmness  here, 
Shall  shudder  as  they  reach  the  door 

Where  one  who  made  their  dwelling  dear, 
Its  flower,  its  light,  is  seen  no  more. 

Youth,  with  pale  cheek  and  slender  frame, 
And  dreams  of  greatness  in  thine  eye ! 

Go'st  thou  to  build  an  early  name, 
Or  early  in  the  task  to  die? 

Keen  son  of  trade,  with  eager  brow ! 

Who  is  now  fluttering  in  thy  snare? 
Thy  golden  fortunes,  tower  they  now, 

Or  melt  the  glittering  spires  in  air? 

Who  of  this  crowd  to-night  shall  tread 
The  dance  till  daylight  gleam  again? 

Who  sorrow  o'er  the  untimely  dead? 
Who  writhe  in  throes  of  mortal  pain? 


[57] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

Some,,  famine-struck,  shall  think  how  long 
The  cold  dark  hours,  how  slow  the  light; 

And  some,,  who  flaunt  amid  the  throng, 
Shall  hide  in  dens  of  shame  to-night. 

Each,  where  his  tasks  or  pleasures  call, 
They  pass,  and  heed  each  other  not. 

There  is  who  heeds,  who  holds  them  all, 
In  His  large  love  and  boundless  thought. 

These  struggling  tides  of  life  that  seem 
In  wayward,  aimless  course  to  tend, 

Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 
That  rolls  to  its  appointed  end. 


"O/i  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race" 

Oh  mother  of  a  mighty  race, 
Yet  lovely  in  thy  youthful  grace ! 
The  elder  dames,  thy  haughty  peers, 
Admire  and  hate  thy  blooming  years. 

With  words  of  shame 
And  taunts  of  scorn  they  join  thy  name. 

For  on  thy  cheeks  the  glow  is  spread 
That  tints  thy  morning  hills  with  red ; 
Thy  step — the  wild  deer's  rustling  feet 
Within  thy  woods  are  not  more  fleet; 

Thy  hopeful  eye 
Is  bright  as  thine  own  sunny  sky. 

[58] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

Ay,  let  them  rail — those  haughty  ones,, 
While  safe  thou  dwellest  with  thy  sons. 
They  do  not  know  how  loved  thou  art, 
How  many  a  fond  and  fearless  heart 

Would  rise  to  throw 
Its  life  between  thee  and  the  foe. 

They  know  not,  in  their  hate  and  pride, 
What  virtues  with  thy  children  bide; 
How  true,  how  good,  thy  graceful  maids 
Make  bright,  like  flowers,  the  valley-shades; 

What  generous  men 
Spring,  like  thine  oaks,  by  hill  and  glen. 

What  cordial  welcomes  greet  the  guest 
By  thy  lone  rivers  of  the  West; 
How  faith  is  kept,  and  truth  revered, 
And  man  is  loved,  and  God  is  feared, 

In  woodland  homes, 
And  where  the  ocean-border  foams. 

There  's  freedom  at  thy  gates  and  rest 
For  Earth's  down-trodden  and  opprest, 
A  shelter  for  the  hunted  head, 
For  the  starved  laborer  toil  and  bread. 

Power,  at  thy  bounds, 
Stops  and  calls  back  his  baffled  hounds. 

Oh,  fair  young  mother !  on  thy  brow 
Shall  sit  a  nobler  grace  than  now. 
Deep  in  the  brightness  of  the  skies 

[59] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

The  thronging  years  in  glory  rise, 

And,  as  they  fleet, 
Drop  strength  and  riches  at  thy  feet. 

Thine  eye,  with  every  coming  hour, 
Shall  brighten,  and  thy  form  shall  tower; 
And  when  thy  sisters,  elder  born, 
Would  brand  thy  name  with  words  of  scorn, 

Before  thine  eye, 
Upon  their  lips  the  taunt  shall  die. 


The  Conqueror's  Grave 

Within  this  lowly  grave  a  Conqueror  lies, 
And  yet  the  monument  proclaims  it  not, 
Nor  round  the  sleeper's  name  hath  chisel  wrought 
The  emblems  of  a  fame  that  never  dies, — 
Ivy  and  amaranth,  in  a  graceful  sheaf, 
Twined  with  the  laurel's  fair,  imperial  leaf. 
A  simple  name  alone, 
To  the  great  world  unknown, 
Is  graven  here,  and  wild-flowers,  rising  round, 
Meek  meadow-sweet  and  violets  of  the  ground, 
Lean  lovingly  against  the  humble  stone. 

Here,  in  the  quiet  earth,  they  laid  apart 
No  man  of  iron  mould  and  bloody  hands, 
Who  sought  to  wreak  upon  the  cowering  lands 

The  passions  that  consumed  his  restless  heart; 


60] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

But  one  of  tender  spirit  and  delicate  frame, 
Gentlest,,  in  mien  and  mind, 
Of  gentle  womankind, 

Timidly  shrinking  from  the  breath  of  blame: 
One  in  whose  eyes  the  smile  of  kindness  made 

Its  haunt,  like  flowers  by  sunny  brooks  in  May, 
Yet,  at  the  thought  of  others'  pain,  a  shade 
Of  sweeter  sadness  chased  the  smile  away. 

Nor  deem  that  when  the  hand  that  moulders  here 
Was  raised  in  menace,  realms  were  chilled  with  fear, 

And  armies  mustered  at  the  sign,  as  when 
Clouds  rise  on  clouds  before  the  rainy  East — 

Gray  captains  leading  bands  of  veteran  men 
And  fiery  youths  to  be  the  vulture's  feast. 
Not  thus  were  waged  the  mighty  wars  that  gave 
The  victory  to  her  who  fills  this  grave ; 
Alone  her  task  was  wrought, 
Alone  the  battle  fought; 

Through  that  long  strife  her  constant  hope  was  staid 
On  God  alone,  nor  looked  for  other  aid. 

She  met  the  hosts  of  Sorrow  with  a  look 

That  altered  not  beneath  the  frown  they  wore, 
And  soon  the  lowering  brood  were  tamed,  and  took, 

Meekly,  her  gentle  rule,  and  frowned  no  more. 
Her  soft  hand  put  aside  the  assaults  of  wrath, 
And  calmly  broke  in  twain 
The  fiery  shafts  of  pain, 


61 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

And  rent  the  nets  of  passion  from  her  path. 

By  that  victorious  hand  despair  was  slain. 
With  love  she  vanquished  hate  and  overcame 
Evil  with  good,,  in  her  Great  Master's  name. 

Her  glory  is  not  of  this  shadowy  state,, 

Glory  that  with  the  fleeting  season  dies ; 
But  when  she  entered  at  the  sapphire  gate 

What  j  oy  was  radiant  in  celestial  eyes  ! 
How   heaven's    bright    depths    with    sounding    welcomes 

rung, 

And  flowers  of  heaven  by  shining  hands  were  flung ! 
And  He  who.,  long  before, 
Pain,  scorn,  and  sorrow  bore, 
The  Mighty  Sufferer,  with  aspect  sweet, 
Smiled  on  the  timid  stranger  from  his  seat; 
He  who  returning,  glorious,  from  the  grave, 
Dragged  Death,  disarmed,  in  chains,  a  crouching  slave. 

See,  as  I  linger  here,  the  sun  grows  low; 

Cool  airs  are  murmuring  that  the  night  is  near. 
O  gentle  sleeper,  from  thy  grave  I  go 

Consoled  though  sad,  in  hope  and  yet  in  fear. 
Brief  is  the  time,  I  know, 
The  warfare  scarce  begun ; 
Yet  all  may  win  the  triumphs  thou  hast  won. 
Still  flows  the  fount  whose  waters  strengthened  thee, 

The  victors'  names  are  yet  too  few  to  fill 
Heaven's  mighty  roll;  the  glorious  armory, 

That  ministered  to  thee,  is  open  still. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

The  Planting  of  the  Apple-Tree 

Come,,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree. 
Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made ; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly,, 
As,  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet, 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle  sheet; 

So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays  ; 
Boughs  where  the  thrush,  with  crimson  breast, 
Shall  haunt  and  sing  and  hide  her  nest; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard  row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors ; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 

[63] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree ! 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon,, 
And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky, 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  when,  above  this  apple-tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 
Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage-hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line, 

The  fruit  of  the  apple-tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple-tree 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view, 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree. 


64} 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-tree 
A  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower; 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie, 
The  summer's  songs,  the  autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  little  apple-tree? 

"Who  planted  this  old  apple-tree?" 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say ; 
And,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them: 

"A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times ; 
'T  is  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes 

On  planting  the  apple-tree." 

[65] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794^1878 


The  Snow-Shower 

Stand  here  by  my  side  and  turn,  I  pray, 

On  the  lake  below  thy  gentle  eyes  ; 
The  clouds  hang  over  it,  heavy  and  gray, 

And  dark  and  silent  the  water  lies ; 
And  out  of  that  frozen  mist  the  snow 
In  wavering  flakes  begins  to  flow; 

Flake  after  flake 
They  sink  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

See  how  in  a  living  swarm  they  come 

From  the  chambers  beyond  that  misty  veil; 

Some  hover  awhile  in  air,  and  some 

Rush  prone  from  the  sky  like  summer  hail. 

All,  dropping  swiftly  or  settling  slow, 

Meet  and  are  still  in  the  depths  below; 
Flake  after  flake 

Dissolved  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Here  delicate  snow-stars,  out  of  the  cloud, 
Come  floating  downward  in  airy  play, 

Like  spangles  dropped  from  the  glistening  crowd 
That  whiten  by  night  the  milky-way; 

There  broader  and  burlier  masses  fall; 

The  sullen  water  buries  them  all — 
Flake  after  flake 

All  drowned  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


[66] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 


And  some,,  as  on  tender  wings  they  glide 

From  their  chilly  birth-cloud,  dim  and  gray, 

Are  joined  in  their  fall,  and,  side  by  side, 
Come  clinging  along  their  unsteady  way; 

As  friend  with  friend,  or  husband  with  wife, 

Makes  hand  in  hand  the  passage  of  life ; 
Each  mated  flake 

Soon  sinks  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Lo !  while  we  are  gazing,  in  swifter  haste 
Stream  down  the  snows,  till  the  air  is  white, 

As,  myriads  by  myriads  madly  chased, 

They  fling  themselves  from  their  shadowy  height. 

The  fair,  frail  creatures  of  middle  sky, 

What  speed  they  make,  with  their  grave  so  nigh; 
Flake  after  flake, 

To  lie  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake ! 

I  see  in  thy  gentle  eyes  a  tear; 

They  turn  to  me  in  sorrowful  thought; 
Thou  thinkest  of  friends,  the  good  and  dear, 

Who  were  for  a  time  and  now  are  not; 
Like  these  fair  children  of  cloud  and  frost, 
That  glisten  a  moment  and  then  are  lost, 

Flake  after  flake — 
All  lost  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


67] 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT     1794-1878 


Yet  look  again,  for  the  clouds  divide ; 

A  gleam  of  blue  on  the  water  lies ; 
And  far  away,  on  the  mountain-side, 

A  sunbeam  falls  from  the  opening  skies. 
But  the  hurrying  host  that  flew  between 
The  cloud  and  the  water,  no  more  is  seen ; 

Flake  after  flake, 
At  rest  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


68] 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE     1795-1820 


The  American  Flag 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night,, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  't  is  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory ! 


[69} 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE     1795-1820 

Flag  of  the  brave !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

[70] 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE     1795-1820 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home ! 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given; 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us? 


71] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  DOANE     1799-1859 


Evening 
Psalm  CXLL  2 

Softly  now  the  light  of  day 
Fades  upon  my  sight  away; 
Free  from  care,  from  labor  free, 
Lord,  I  would  commune  with  Thee : 

Thou,  whose  all-pervading  eye 
Naught  escapes,  without,  within, 
Pardon  each  infirmity, 
Open  fault,  and  secret  sin. 

Soon,  for  me,  the  light  of  day 
Shall  for  ever  pass  away ; 
Then,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
Take  me,  Lord,  to  dwell  with  Thee 

Thou,  who,  sinless,  yet  hast  known 
All  of  man's  infirmity ; 
Then,  from  Thine  eternal  throne, 
Jesus,  look  with  pitying  eye. 


[72 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY     1802-1828 

Song 

We  break  the  glass,  whose  sacred  wine 

To  some  beloved  health  we  drain, 
Lest  future  pledges,  less  divine, 

Should  e'er  the  hallowed  toy  profane; 
And  thus  I  broke  a  heart,  that  poured 

Its  tide  of  feelings  out  for  thee, 
In  draughts,  by  after-times  deplored, 

Yet  dear  to  memory. 

But  still  the  old,  empassioned  ways 

And  habits  of  my  mind  remain, 
And  still  unhappy  light  displays 

Thine  image  chambered  in  my  brain, 
And  still  it  looks  as  when  the  hours 

Went  by  like  nights  of  singing  birds, 
Or  that  soft  chain  of  spoken  flowers, 

And  airy  gems,  thy  words. 


A  Serenade 

Look  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love. 

And  shame  them  with  thine  eyes, 
On  which,  than  on  the  lights  above, 

There  hang  more  destinies. 
Night's  beauty  is  the  harmony 

Of  blending  shades  and  light; 
Then,  Lady,  up, — look  out,  and  be 

A  sister  to  the  night ! — 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY     1802-1828 

Sleep  not ! — thine  image  wakes  for  aye, 

Within  my  watching  breast: 
Sleep  not! — from  her  soft  sleep  should  fly, 

Who  robs  all  hearts  of  rest. 
Nay,  Lady,  from  thy  slumbers  break, 

And  make  this  darkness  gay, 
With  looks,  whose  brightness  well  might  make 

Of  darker  nights  a  day. 


A  Health 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming  paragon ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements  and  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air,  't  is  less  of  earth  than 
heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own,  like  those  of  morning 

birds, 
And   something   more   than   melody   dwells   ever   in   her 

words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they,  and  from  her  lips  each 

flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burthened  bee  forth  issue  from  the 

rose. 


[74] 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY     1802-1828 


Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her,  the  measures  of  her 

hours ; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy,  the  freshness,  of  young 

flowers ; 

And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft,  so  fill  her,  she  appears 
The   image   of  themselves   by   turns, — the   idol   of   past 

years ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace  a  picture  on  the 

brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts  a  sound  must  long 

remain ; 

But  memory  such  as  mine  of  her  so  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh  will  not  be  life's  but 

hers. 

I  filled  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming  paragon — 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood  some  more 

of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry,  and  weariness  a  name. 


75] 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY     1802-1828 

The  Widow's  Song 

I  burn  no  incense,  hang  no  wreath, 

On  this,  thine  early  tomb: 
Such  cannot  cheer  the  place  of  death, 

But  only  mock  its  gloom. 
Here  odorous  smoke  and  breathing  flower 

No  grateful  influence  shed ; 
They  lose  their  perfume  and  their  power, 

When  offered  to  the  dead. 

And  if,  as  is  the  Afghaun's  creed, 

The  spirit  may  return, 
A  disembodied  sense  to  feed, 

On  fragrance,  near  its  urn — 
It  is  enough,  that  she,  whom  thou 

Did'st  love  in  living  years, 
Sits  desolate  beside  it  now, 

And  falls  these  heavv  tears. 


A  Parting 

Alas  !  our  pleasant  moments  fly 

On  rapid  wings  away, 
While  those  recorded  with  a  sigh, 

Mock  us  by  long  delay. 

Time — envious  time — loves  not  to  be 

In  company  with  mirth, 
But  makes  malignant  pause  to  see 

The  work  of  pain  on  earth. 

[76] 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON     1803-1882 


The  Problem 

I  like  a  church;  I  like  a  cowl; 

I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul ; 

And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 

Fall  like  sweet  strains,  or  pensive  smiles; 

Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 

Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 

Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 
His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought; 
Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 
The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle : 
Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 
The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old ; 
The  litanies  of  nations  came, 
Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 
Up  from  the  burning  core  below, — 
The  canticles  of  love  and  woe; 
The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome, 
And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome, 
Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity; 
Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free; 
He  builded  better  than  he  knew; — 
The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  gre\v. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON     1803-1882 

Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  woodbird's  nest 
Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast? 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell? 
Or  how  the  sacred  pine  tree  adds 
To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads? 
Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 
Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 
Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 
As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone; 
And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids, 
To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids ; 
O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 
As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye; 
For,  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere, 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air ; 
And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass ; 
Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 
The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 
To  the  vast  soul  that  o'er  him  planned; 
And  the  same  power  that  reared  the  shrine, 
Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 
Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 
Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 

[78] 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON     1803-1882 

Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 
And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 

The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 
Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken; 
The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 
In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 
Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 
One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 
I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise, — 
The  Book  itself  before  me  lies, — 
Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 
And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 
Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines. 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 
I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear ; 
And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  this  good  bishop  be. 


The  Rhodora 
On  Being  Asked  Whence  Is  the  Flower 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 
I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 

[79] 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON     1803-1882 

The  purple  petals,,  fallen  in  the  pool,, 

Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay ; 

Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 

And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 

Rhodora !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 

This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky, 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 

Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being: 

Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose ! 

I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew: 

But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 

The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there  brought  you. 


The  Humble-Bee 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee, 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid-zone ! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun,, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere ; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air ; 

[80] 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON     1803-1882 


Voyager  of  light  and  noon; 
Epicurean  of  June ; 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 
And,  with  softness  touching  all, 
Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  a  color  of  romance, 
Andj  infusing  subtle  heats, 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 
Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes, 
Rover  of  the  underwoods, 
The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's   petted   crone, 

Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 

Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 

Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers ; 

Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 

In  Indian  wildernesses  found; 

Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 

Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 


81] 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON     1803-1882 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen; 
But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 
Maple-sap,  and  daffodels, 
Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 
Succory  to  match  the  sky, 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among; 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher ! 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
Leave  the  chaff,  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 


[82] 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON     1803-1882 


Fable 

The  mountain  and  the  squirrel 

Had  a  quarrel; 

And  the  former  called  the  latter  "Little  Prig." 

Bun  replied, 

"You  are  doubtless  very  big; 

But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 

Must  be  taken  in  together, 

To  make  up  a  year 

And  a  sphere. 

And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 

To  occupy  my  place. 

If  I'm  not  as  large  as  you, 

You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 

And  not  half  so  spry. 

I'll  not  deny  you  make 

A  very  pretty  squirrel  track; 

Talents  differ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put; 

If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 

Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 


[83] 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON     1803-1882 

To  Eva 

O  fair  and  stately  maid,  whose  eyes 
Were  kindled  in  the  upper  skies 

At  the  same  torch  that  lighted  mine; 
For  so  I  must  interpret  still 
Thy  sweet  dominion  o'er  my  will, 

A  sympathy  divine. 

Ah !  let  me  blameless  gaze  upon 
Features  that  seem  at  heart  my  own; 

Nor  fear  those  watchful  sentinels, 
Who   charm  the  more  their   glance   forbids, 
Chaste-glowing,  underneath  their  lids, 

With  fire  that  draws  while  it  repels. 


Days 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 

Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 

And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 

Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 

Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  all. 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 

Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 

Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 

Turned  and  departed  silent.     I,  too  late, 

Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 

[84] 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON     1803-1882 

Concord  Hymn 

Sung  at  the  Completion  of  the  Battle  Monument,  April 

19,  1836 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 

And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 


Poet 

To  clothe  the  fiery  thought 
In  simple  words  succeeds, 
For  still  the  craft  of  genius   is 
To  mask  a  king  in  weeds. 

[85} 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON     1803-1882 

Borrowing 
From  the  French 

Some  of  the  hurts  you  have  cured, 
And  the  sharpest  you  still  have  survived, 
But  what  torments  of  grief  you  endured 
From  evils  which  never  arrived! 


Heri,  Cras,  Hodie 

Shines  the  last  age,  the  next  with  hope  is  seen, 
To-day  slinks  poorly  off  unmarked  between: 
Future  or  Past  no  rich  secret  folds, 
O  friendless  Present!  than  thy  bosom  holds. 


Sacrifice 

Though  love  repine,  and  reason  chafe, 
There  came  a  voice  without  reply, — 
'  'T  is  man's  perdition  to  be  safe, 
When  for  the  truth  he  ought  to  die." 


Shakespeare 

I  see  all  human  wits 
Are  measured  but  a  few; 
Unmeasured  still  my   Shakespeare  sits, 
Lone  as  the  blessed  Jew. 

[86] 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON     1803-1882 


Brahma 

If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 

They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near ; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same ; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear ; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out ; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings ; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven; 

But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good! 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 


[87] 


WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON     1805-1879 


Freedom  for  the  Mind 

High  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine, 
And  iron  grates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze, 
And  massive  bolts  may  baffle  his  design, 
And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways : 
Yet  scorns  the  immortal  mind  this  base  control ! 
No  chains  can  bind  it,  and  no  cell  enclose: 
Swifter  than  light,  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole, 
And,  in  a  flash,  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes  ! 
It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount — from  vale  to  vale 
It  wanders,  plucking  honeyed  fruits  and  flowers ; 
It  visits  home,  to  hear  the  fireside  tale, 
Or  in  sweet  converse  pass  the  joyous  hours. 
'T  is  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar, 
And,  in  its  watches,  wearies  every  star ! 


[88] 


NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS     1806-1867 


Unseen  Spirits 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 
'T  was  near  the  twilight-tide — 

And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 
Was  walking  in  her  pride. 

Alone  walked  she;  but,  viewlessly, 
Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  Honor  charmed  the  air ; 
And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her, 

And  called  her  good  as  fair — 
For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 
From  lovers  warm  and  true — 

For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 
And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo — 

But  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell 
If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail — 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  forlorn, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 


[89 


NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS     1806-1867 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray ; 

For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way ! — 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alway ! 


Love  in  a  Cottage 

They  may  talk  of  love  in  a  cottage, 

And  bowers  of  trellised  vine — 
Of  nature  bewitchingly  simple, 

And  milkmaids  half  divine; 
They  may  talk  of  the  pleasure  of  sleeping 

In  the  shade  of  a  spreading  tree, 
And  a  walk  in  the  fields  at  morning, 

By  the  side  of  a  footstep  free ! 

But  give  me  a  sly  flirtation 

By  the  light  of  a  chandelier — 
With  music  to  play  in  the  pauses, 

And  nobody  very  near; 
Or  a  seat  on  a  silken  sofa, 

With  a  glass  of  pure  old  wine, 
And  mamma  too  blind  to  discover 

The  small  white  hand  in  mine. 


[90 


NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS     1806-1867 

Your  love  in  a  cottage  is  hungry, 

Your  vine  is  a  nest  for  flies — 
Your  milkmaid  shocks  the  Graces, 

And  simplicity  talks  of  pies! 
You  lie  down  to  your  shady  slumber 

And  wake  with  a  bug  in  your  ear, 
And  your  damsel  that  walks  in  the  morning 

Is  shod  like  a  mountaineer. 

True  love  is  at  home  on  a  carpet, 

And  mightily  likes  his  ease — 
And  true  love  has  an  eye  for  a  dinner, 

And  starves  beneath  shady  trees. 
His  wing  is  the  fan  of  a  lady, 

His  foot 's  an  invisible  thing, 
And  his  arrow  is  tipp'd  with  a  jewel 

And  shot  from  a  silver  string. 


[91] 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN     1806-1884 

Monterey 

We  were  not  many — we  who  stood 
Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day — 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  he  then  could 
Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot,  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  wailed 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on — still  on  our  column  kept 

Through  walls  of  flame  its  withering  way; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When,,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay, 
We  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play; 
Where  orange  boughs  above  their  grave 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN     1806-1884 

We  are  not  many, — we  who  pressed 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day ; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 
He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey? 


The  Mint  Julep 

'T  is  said  that  the  gods,,  on  Olympus  of  old 

(And  who  the  bright  legend  profanes  with  a  doubt), 

One  night,  mid  their  revels,  by  Bacchus  were  told 
That  his  last  butt  of  nectar  had  somehow  run  out ! 

But  determined  to  send  round  the  goblet  once  more, 
They  sued  to  their  fairer  immortals  for  aid 

In  composing  a  draught,  which,  till  drinking  were  o'er, 
Should  cast  every  wine  ever  drank  in  the  shade. 

Grave  Ceres  herself  blithely  yielded  her  corn, 

And  the  spirit  that  lives  in  each  amber-hued  grain, 

And  which  first  had  its  birth  from  the  dew  of  the  morn, 
Was  taught  to  steal  out  in  bright  dewdrops  again, 

Pomona,  whose  choicest  of  fruits  on  the  board 
Were  scatter'd  profusely  in  every  one's  reach, 

When  call'd  on  a  tribute  to  cull  from  the  hoard, 
Express'd  the  mild  juice  of  the  delicate  peach. 


[93] 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN     1806-1884 

The  liquids  were  mingled  while  Venus  look'd  on 

With  glances  so  fraught  with  sweet  magical  power, 

That  the  honey  of  Hybla,  e'en  when  they  were  gone, 
Has  never  been  miss'd  in  the  draught  from  that  hour. 

Flora  then,  from  her  bosom  of  fragrancy,  shook, 
And  with  roseate  fingers  press'd  down  in  the  bowl, 

All  dripping  and  fresh  as  it  came  from  the  brook, 
The  herb  whose  aroma  should  flavor  the  whole. 

The  draught  was  delicious,  and  loud  the  acclaim, 
Though  something  seemed  wanting  for  all  to  bewail; 

But  Juleps  the  drink  of  immortals  became, 
When  Jove  himself  added  a  handful  of  hail. 


[94] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

A  Psalm  of  Life 
What  the  Heart  of  the  Young  Man  Said  to  the  Psalmist 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! — 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real!     Life  is  earnest! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead ! 


[95] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


Footsteps  of  Angels 

When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 
And  the  voices  of  the  Night 

Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 
To  a  holy,  calm  delight; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall; 


96  ] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door ; 
The  beloved^  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

Oh,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 
If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died ! 


Song  of  the  Silent  Land 
(Lied:  Ins   Stille  Land) 

BY    JOHANN    GAUDENZ    VON    SALIS-SEEWIS 

Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

Ah !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 

Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 

And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 

Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Thither,  oh,  thither, 

Into  the  Silent  Land? 

Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 

Of  all  perfection  !     Tender  morning-visions 

Of  beauteous  souls  !     The  Future's  pledge  and  band ! 

Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand, 

Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 

Into  the  Silent  Land ! 


[98 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

O  Land!     O  Land! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 

The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted,, 

Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 

To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

To  the  land  of  the  great  Departed, 

Into  the  Silent  Land ! 


The  Skeleton  in  Armor 

"Speak !  speak !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me?" 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


"I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon ; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow'. 


[100} 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LO-N-G'FKLLOW 


"But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 


[101] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807- 


"I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

"While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 


[102 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


"She  was  a  Prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild,, 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

"Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 


103] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


"And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
'Death !'  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

'Death  without  quarter !' 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water ! 

"As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 


[104 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


"There  lived  we  many  years ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another! 

"Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

Oh,  death  was  grateful ! 

"Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland!  skoal!" 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 


[105] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-188:2 


The  Village  Blacksmith 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 

The  village  smithy  stands ; 
The  smith,,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  watch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 


106] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church,, 

And  sits  among  his  boys; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir,, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice,, 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought! 


[10', 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


Endymion 

The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars ; 

Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 

Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 
She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss, 
When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 
He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss,  unasked,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes, — the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity, — 

In  silence  and  alone 

To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him  who  slumbering  lies. 

[108] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

O  weary  hearts  !    O  slumbering  eyes  ! 
O  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  his  own. 

Responds, — as  if  with  unseen  wings, 
An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
"Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long?" 


Maidenhood 

Maiden !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

[109] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar? 

Oh,  thou  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Life  hatli  quicksands,  Life  hath  snares ! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many  numbered; — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 


[110 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

Gather,,  then,,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

O,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds,  that  cannot  heal 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


Excelsior 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

[Ill] 


HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

His  brow  was  sad;  his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright; 
Above.,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior ! 

"Try  not  the  Pass!"  the  old  man  said; 
"Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide !" 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 

"Oh,  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast!" 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

"Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche!" 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

There,  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior ! 


The  Arsenal  at  Springfield 

This  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah !  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys  ! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies  ! 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1883 


I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 

Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's  song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din,, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent's  skin ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village ; 

The  shouts  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder, 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  j arrest  the  celestial  harmonies? 


114} 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps  and  courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts : 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of  Cain ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 

I  hear  once   more  the  voice  of  Christ  say,  "Peace!" 

Peace !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 

The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies  ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


Nuremberg 

In  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across  broad  meadow- 
lands 

Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nuremberg,  the 
ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint  old  town  of  art 

and  song, 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like  the  rooks  that 

round  them  throng: 

[115] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  emperors,  rough 

and  bold, 
Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time-defying,  centuries 

old; 

And  thy   brave   and  thrifty   burghers   boasted,   in   their 

uncouth  rhyme, 
That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its  hand  through 

every  clime. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with  many  an  iron 

band, 
Stands  the  mighty  linden  planted  by  Queen  Cunigunde's 

hand; 

On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  where  in  old  heroic  days 
Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maximilian's  praise. 

Everywhere  I  see  around  me  rise  the  wondrous  world  of 

Art: 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  standing  in  the 

common  mart ; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and  bishops  carved 

in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to  our  own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrined  his  holy 

dust, 
And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from  age  to 

age  their  trust; 

[116] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a  pix  of  sculp 
ture  rare, 

Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising  through  the 
painted  air. 

Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple,  reverent 

heart, 
Lived  and  labored  Albrecht  Diirer,  the  Evangelist  of  Art; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with  busy 

hand, 
Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for   the   Better 

Land. 

Emigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tombstone  where  he 

lies; 
Dead  he  is  not,  but  departed, — for  the  artist  never  dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine   seems 

more  fair, 
That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that  he  once  has 

breathed  its  air ! 

Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately,  these  obscure 

and  dismal  lanes, 
Walked  of  yore  the  Mastersingers,  chanting  rude  poetic 

strains. 

From    remote    and    sunless    suburbs    came    they    to    the 

friendly  guild, 
Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as  in  spouts  the 

swallows  build. 


117] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,,  wove  he  too  the  mystic 

rhyme, 
And    the    smith    his    iron    measures    hammered    to    the 

anvil's  chime; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom  makes  the  flowers 

of  poesy  bloom 
In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tissues  of  the  loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate  of  the  gentle 

craft, 
Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in  huge  folios  sang 

and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a  nicely  sanded 

floor, 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his   face  above  the 

door; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  Adam  Puschman's 

song, 
As  the  old  man  gray  and  dove-like,  with  his  great  beard 

white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes   to  drown  his 

cark  and  care, 
Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the  master's  antique 

chair. 

Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendor,  and  before  my  dreamy 

eye 
Wave   these   mingled   shapes   and   figures,   like   a    faded 

tapestry. 


118] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

Not   thy    Councils,,   not   thy   Kaisers,   win   for   thee   the 

world's  regard; 
But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Diirer,  and  Hans  Sachs,  thy 

cobbler  bard. 

Thus,  O  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer  from  a  region  far  away, 
As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards,  sang  in  thought 
his  careless  lay: 

Gathering  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as  a  floweret  of 

the  soil, 
The  nobility  of  labor, — the  long  pedigree  of  toil. 


The  Day  is  Done 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist: 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

[119] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 
The  restless  pulse  of  care, 

And  come  like  the  benediction 
That  follows  after  prayer. 


[ISO] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


Seaweed 

When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks : 

From  Bermuda's  reefs ;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges, 
In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides; 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main ; 
Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaches, 
All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  erelong 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song: 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  lias  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth ; 
From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth ; 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavor 

That  forever 

Wrestle  with  the  tides  of  Fate; 
From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate; — 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 

Currents  of  the  restless  heart; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 


Resignation 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted! 

Let  us  be  patient!     These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

[123] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


There  is  no  Death!     What  seems  so  is  transition; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead, — the  child  of  our  affection, — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection,, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead, 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air ; 
Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child; 


[***] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest, — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


The  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports 

A  mist  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel, 

The  day  was  just  begun, 
And  through  the  window-panes,  on  floor  and  panel, 

Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling  pennon, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships; 
And,  from  the  frowning  rampart,  the  black  cannon 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 


125} 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


Sandwich  and  Romney,  Hastings,  Hithe,  and  Dover, 

Were  all  alert  that  day,. 
To  see  the  French  war-steamers  speeding  over, 

When  the  fog  cleared  away. 

Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant  lions, 

Their  cannon,  through  the  night, 
Holding  their  breath,  had  watched,  in  grim  defiance, 

The  sea-coast  opposite. 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum-beat  from  their  stations, 

On  every  citadel ; 
Each  answering  each,  with  morning  salutations, 

That  all  was  well. 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up  the  burden, 

Replied  the  distant  forts, 
As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden 

And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of  azure, 

No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 
No  morning  gun  from  the  black  fort's  embrasure, 

Awaken  with  its  call! 

No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impartial 

The  long  line  of  the  coast, 
Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  Field  Marshal 

Be  seen  upon  his  post ! 


[126 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

For  in  the  night,,  unseen,,  a  single  warrior,, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 
Dreaded  of  man,,  and  surnamed  the  Destroyer, 

The  rampart  wall  had  scaled. 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper, 

The  dark  and  silent  room, 
And  as  he  entered,  darker  grew,  and  deeper, 

The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble, 

But  smote  the  Warden  hoar ; 
Ah  !  what  a  blow  !  that  made  all  England  tremble 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  cannon  waited, 

The  sun  rose  bright  o'erhead ; 
Nothing  in  Nature's  aspect  intimated 

That  a  great  man  was  dead. 


My  Lost  Youth 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea ; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

[1*7] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1883 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees,, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

[128] 


'HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 

How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide ! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 

Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 

Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 

"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807- 1883 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart  weak, 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town ; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known  street, 
As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


130  ] 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 


The  Cumberland 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns. 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 


[181} 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     1807-1882 

"Strike  your  flag!"  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"Never!"  our  gallant  Morris  replies; 
"It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield !" 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream; 
Ho !  brave  land !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam ! 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


Proem  to  Edition  of 

Written  to  introduce  the  first  general  collection  of  his 
poems 

I  love  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through,, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try ; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beats  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 

Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife,  are 
here. 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 


[133 


JOHN  GREEXLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1899 

Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 

The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind ; 
To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 
Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 

A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown; 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence,, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

O  Freedom !  if  to  me  belong 

Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 
Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 

As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine ! 


Randolph  of  Roanoke 

O  Mother  Earth !  upon  thy  lap 

Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 

Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And;  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He  sleeps, — still  looking  to  the  west, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune ! — in  himself 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting, — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  wo, 

The  scorn-like  lightning  blasting; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred  scarcely  human ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower, 
From  lips  of  life-long  sadness ; 

Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 
Upon  a  ground  of  madness ; 

[135] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him :  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  dowrn 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusty  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion ! 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune  strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning ; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave, 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

[136] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences,, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  Scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves:  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman ! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured. 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping,, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother-man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

O,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver ! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 

[197] 


JOHN  GREEXLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 

Along  her  future  treading. 
For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 
He  traced  with  dying  hand  "Remorse!" 

And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 

From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 
And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 

The  Sage  of  Monticello, 
So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 
Virginia !  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 

A  warning  voice  is  swelling! 

And  hark !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy  exiled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee, — wolves  for  men, 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving! 
O,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living! 


138 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


Barclay  of  Ury 

Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 

Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury ; 
Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving-girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Yet,  with  calm  and  stately  mien, 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding; 
And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard, 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came  a  troop  with  broadswords  swinging, 
Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 

Loose  and  free  and  f reward; 
Quoth  the  foremost,  "Ride  him  down ! 
Push  him !  prick  him !  through  the  town 

Drive  the  Quaker  coward!" 


139 


JOHN  GREEXLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud: 

"Barclay  !     Ho  !  a  Barclay  !" 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle  tried, 

Scarred  and  sunburned  darkly; 

Who  with  ready  weapon  bare, 
Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Cried  aloud:  "God  save  us, 
Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle  deep  in  Lutzen's  blood, 

With  the  brave  Gustavus?" 

"Nay,  I  do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,"  said  Ury's  lord; 

"Put  it  up,  I  pray  thee: 
Passive  to  his  holy  will, 
Trust  I  in  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  he  slay  me." 

"Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed." 
Marvelled  much  that  henchman  bold, 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 


[140 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


"Wo  's  the  day !"  he  sadly  said, 
With  a  slowly-shaking  head,, 

And  a  look  of  pity; 
"Ury's  honest  lord  reviled,, 
Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 

In  his  own  good  city ! 

"Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  line, 

And  his  Walloon  lancers, 
Smiting  through  their  midst  we'll  teach 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 

To  these  boyish  prancers !" 

"Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend, 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end:" 

Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury, 
"Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 

Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry? 

"Give  me  joy  that  in  his  name 
I  can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer; 
While  for  them  he  suffereth  long, 
Shall  I  answer  wrong  with  wrong, 

Scoffing  with  the  scoffer? 


[141 


JOHN  GREEXLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


"Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all, 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me, 
Than  when  reeve  and  squire  were  seen, 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen, 

With  bared  heads  to  meet  me. 

"When  each  good  wife,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Blessed  me  as  I  passed  her  door; 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 
Through  her  casement  glancing  down, 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

"Hard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scoff", 
Hard  the  old  friend's  falling  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving: 
But  the  Lord  his  own  rewards, 
And  his  love  with  theirs  accords, 

Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

"Through  this  dark  and  stormy  night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking; 
Knowing  God's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  I  rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking!" 


[14* 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


So  the  Laird  of  Ury  said, 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 

Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison, 
Where,  through  iron  grates,  he  heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen ! 

Not  in  vain,  Confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

Of  thy  day  of  trial ; 
Every  age  on  him  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways 
Pours  its  sevenfold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angels  comfortings  can  hear, 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter ; 
And,  while  Hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  that  never  yet 
Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow ; 
After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 


[143] 


JOHN  GREEXLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

Thus,,  with  somewhat  of  the  Seer, 
Must  the  moral  pioneer 

From  the  Future  borrow; 
Clothe  the  waste  with  dreams  of  grain, 
And,  on  midnight's  sky  of  rain, 

Paint  the  golden  morrow  ! 


Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  0.  Torrey,  Secretary 
of  the  Boston  Young  Men's  Anti- 
Slavery  Society 

Gone  before  us,  O  our  brother, 

To  the  spirit-land! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Who  shall  offer  youth  and  beauty 

On  the  wasting  shrine 
Of  a  stern  and  lofty  duty, 

With  a  faith  like  thine? 

O,  thy  gentle  smile  of  greeting 

Who  again  shall  see? 
Who  amidst  the  solemn  meeting 

Gaze  again  on  thee? — 
Who,  when  peril  gathers  o'er  us, 

Wear  so  calm  a  brow  ? 
Who,  with  evil  men  before  us, 

So  serene  as  thou? 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

Early  hath  the  spoiler  found  thee, 

Brother  of  our  love ! 
Autumn's  faded  earth  around  thee, 

And  its  storms  above ! 
Evermore  that  turf  lie  lightly, 

And,,  with  future  showers, 
O'er  thy  slumbers  fresh  and  brightly 

Blow  the  summer  flowers  ! 

In  the  locks  thy  forehead  gracing, 

Not  a  silvery  streak; 
Nor  a  line  of  sorrow's  tracing 

On  thy  fair  j^oung  cheek; 
Eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  roses, 

Such  as  Hylas  wore — 
Over  all  that  curtain  closes, 

Which  shall  rise  no  more ! 

Will  the  vigil  Love  is  keeping 

Round  that  grave  of  thine, 
Mournfully,  like  Jazer  weeping 

Over  Sibmah's  vine, — 
Will  the  pleasant  memories,  swelling 

Gentle  hearts,  of  thee, 
In  the  spirit's  distant  dwelling 

All  unheeded  be? 

If  the  spirit  ever  gazes, 

From  its  journeyings,  back; 

If  the  immortal  ever  traces 
O'er  its  mortal  track ; 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

Wilt  thou  not,  O  brother,,  meet  us 

Sometimes  on  our  way, 
And,  in  hours  of  sadness,  greet  us 

As  a  spirit  may? 

Peace  be  with  thee,  O  our  brother, 

In  the  spirit-land ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Unto  Truth  and  Freedom  giving 

All  thy  early  powers, 
Be  thy  virtues  with  the  living, 

And  thy  spirit  ours  ! 


Ichabod 

So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore ! 

Revile  him  not, — the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall ! 

O,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

[146] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


Scorn !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven ! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  remains, — 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled: 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead ! 

Then,,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame ! 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

Maud  Muller 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast, — 

A  wish  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

[148] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

"Thanks!"  said  the  Judge;  "a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed:  "Ah  me! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be ! 

"He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 

And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 


[149] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"A  form  more  fair,,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"Would  she  were  mine,,  and  I  to-day,, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay: 

"No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  wreary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 


150  ] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go ; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain, 
"Ah,  that  I  were  free  again ! 

"Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 


[151] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge ! 

God  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these:  "It  might  have  been!" 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 

[152] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


My  Playmate 

The  pines  were  dark  on  R  a  moth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet,, 
The  orchards  birds  sang  clear; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers,, 

My  playmate  left  her  home, 
And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 

The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine: 
What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May: 
The  constant  years  told  o'er 

Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

[153] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply,  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She   smooths   her   silken   gown,, — 

Xo  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook,, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 

The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 

The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 
The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 

The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems, — 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice: 

Does  she  remember  mine? 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine? 


154] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 
For  other  eyes  than  ours, — 

That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled,, 
And  other  laps  with  flowers? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea,-— 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee ! 


The  Old  Burning-Ground 

Our  vales  are  sweet  with  fern  and  rose, 
Our  hills  are  maple-crowned; 

But  not  from  them  our  fathers  chose 
The  village  burying-ground. 

The  dreariest  spot  in  all  the  land 

To  Death  they  set  apart; 
With  scanty  grace  from  Nature's  hand, 

And  none  from  that  of  Art. 

[155] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


A  winding  wall  of  mossy  stone. 

Frost-flung  and  broken,  lines 
A  lonesome  acre  thinly  grown 

With  grass  and  wandering  vines. 

Without  the  wall  a  birch-tree  shows 

Its  drooped  and  tasselled  head; 
Within,,  a  stag-horned  sumach  grows, 

Fern-leafed.,  with  spikes  of  red. 

There,  sheep  that  graze  the  neighboring  plain 

Like  white  ghosts  come  and  go, 
The  farm-horse  drags  his  fetlock  chain, 

The  cow-bell  tinkles  slow. 

Low  moans  the  river  from  its  bed, 

The  distant  pines  reply; 
Like  mourners  shrinking  from  the  dead, 

They  stand  apart  and  sigh. 

Unshaded  smites  the  summer  sun, 

Unchecked  the  winter  blast ; 
The  school-girl  learns  the  place  to  shun, 

With  glances  backward  cast. 

For  thus  our  fathers  testified, — 

That  he  might  read  who  ran, — 
The  emptiness  of  human  pride, 

The  nothingness  of  man. 


[156 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


They  dared  not  plant  the  grave  with  flowers, 

Nor  dress  the  funeral  sod, 
Where,  with  a  love  as  deep  as  ours, 

They  left  their  dead  with  God. 

The  hard  and  thorny  path  they  kept 

From  beauty  turned  aside; 
Nor  missed  they  over  those  who  slept 

The  grace  to  life  denied. 

Yet  still  the  wilding  flowers  would  blow, 

The  golden  leaves  would  fall, 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 

And  God  be  good  to  all. 

Above  the  graves  the  blackberry  hung 

In  bloom  and  green  its  wreath, 
And  harebells  swung  as  if  they  rung 

The  chimes  of  peace  beneath. 

The  beauty  Nature  loves  to  share, 

The  gifts  she  hath  for  all, 
The  common  light,  the  common  air, 

O'ercrept  the  graveyard's  wall. 

It  knew  the  glow  of  eventide, 

The  sunrise  and  the  noon, 
And  glorified  and  sanctified 

It  slept  beneath  the  moon. 


[  157  ] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


With  flowers  or  snow-flakes  for  its  sod, 

Around  the  seasons  ran,, 
And  evermore  the  love  of  God 

Rebuked  the  fear  of  man. 

We  dwell  with  fears  on  either  hand, 

Within  a  daily  strife, 
And  spectral  problems  waiting  stand 

Before  the  gates  of  life. 

The  doubts  we  vainly  seek  to  solve, 

The  truths  we  know,  are  one; 
The  known  and  nameless  stars  revolve 

Around  the  Central  Sun. 

And  if  we  reap  as  we  have  sown, 

And  take  the  dole  we  deal, 
The  law  of  pain  is  love  alone, 

The  wounding  is  to  heal. 

Unharmed  from  change  to  change  we  glide, 

We  fall  as  in  our  dreams ; 
The  far-off  terror  at  our  side 

A  smiling  angel  seems. 

Secure  on  God's  all-tender  heart 

Alike  rest  great  and  small ; 
Why  fear  to  lose  our  little  part, 

When  he  is  pledged  for  all? 


[158 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

O  fearful  heart  and  troubled  brain ! 

Take  hope  and  strength  from  this, — 
That  Nature  never  hints  in  vain,, 

Nor  prophesies  amiss. 

Her  wild  birds  sing  the  same  sweet  stave, 

Her  lights  and  airs  are  given 
Alike  to  playground  and  the  grave ; 

And  over  both  is  Heaven. 


Dedication  of  "In  War  Time" 
To  Samuel  E.  Sewall  and  Harriet  W.  Sewall  of  Melrose 

Olor  Iscanus  queries:  "Why  should  we 

Vex  at  the  land's  ridiculous  miserie?" 

So  on  his  Usk  banks,  in  the  blood-red  dawn 

Of  England's  civil  strife,  did  careless  Vaughan 

Bemock  his  times.     O  friends  of  many  years ! 

Though  faith  and  trust  are  stronger  than  our  fears, 

And  the  signs  promise  peace  with  liberty, 

Not  thus  we  trifle  with  our  country's  tears 

And  sweat  of  agony.     The  future's  gain 

Is  certain  as  God's  truth ;  but,  meanwhile,  pain 

Is  bitter  and  tears  are  salt:  our  voices  take 

A  sober  tone ;  our  very  household  songs 

Are  heavy  with  a  nation's  griefs  and  wrongs ; 

And  innocent  mirth  is  chastened  for  the  sake 

Of  the  brave  hearts  that  nevermore  shall  beat, 

The  eyes  that  smile  no  more,  the  unreturning  feet ! 


159 


JOHX  GREEXLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


The  Watchers 

Beside  a  stricken  field  I  stood; 

On  the  torn  turf.,  on  grass  and  wood, 

Hung  heavily  the  dew  of  blood. 

Still  in  their  fresh  mounds  lay  the  slain, 
But  all  the  air  was  quick  with  pain 
And  gusty  sighs  and  tearful  rain. 

Two  angels,  each  with  drooping  head 
And  folded  wings  and  noiseless  tread, 
Watched  by  that  valley  of  the  dead. 

The  one,  with  forehead  saintly  bland 
And  lips  of  blessing,  not  command, 
Leaned,  weeping,  on  her  olive  wand. 

The  other's  brows  were  scarred  and  knit, 
His  restless  eyes  were  watch-fires  lit, 
His  hands  for  battle-gauntlets  fit. 

"How  long !" — I  knew  the  voice  of  Peace,- 
"Is  there  no  respite? — no  release? — 
When  shall  the  hopeless  quarrel  cease  ? 

"O  Lord,  how  long ! — One  human  soul 
Is  more  than  any  parchment  scroll, 
Or  any  flag  thy  winds  unroll. 


160 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

"What  price  was  Ellsworth's,  young  and  brave? 
How  weigh  the  gift  that  Lyon  gave, 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's  grave  ? 

"O  brother !  if  thine  eye  can  see, 
Tell  how  and  when  the  end  shall  be, 
What  hope  remains  for  thee  and  me." 

Then  Freedom  sternly  said:  "I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun, 
When  human  rights  are  staked  and  won. 

"I  knelt  with  Ziska's  hunted  flock, 
I  watched  in  Toussaint's  cell  of  rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 

"The  moor  of  Marston  felt  my  tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march  I  led, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped. 

"But  now,  through  weary  day  and  night, 
I  watch  a  vague  and  aimless  fight 
For  leave  to  strike  one  blow  aright. 

"On  either  side  my  foe  they  own: 

One  guards  through  love  his  ghastly  throne, 

And  one  through  fear  to  reverence  grown. 

"Why  wait  we  longer,,  mocked,  betrayed, 

By  open  foes,  or  those  afraid 

To  speed  thy  coming  through  my  aid? 

[181] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

"Why  watch  to  see  who  win  or  fall  ? — 

I  shake  the  dust  against  them  all, 

I  leave  them  to  their  senseless  brawl." 

"Nay/'  Peace  implored:  "yet  longer  wait; 
The  doom  is  near,  the  stake  is  great : 
God  knoweth  if  it  be  too  Lite. 

"Still  wait  and  watch;  the  way  prepare 
Where  I  with  folded  wings  of  prayer 
May  follow,,  weaponless  and  bare." 

"Too  late !"  the  stern,,  sad  voice  replied, 
"Too  late !"  its  mournful  echo  sighed, 
In  low  lament  the  answer  died. 

A  rustling  as  of  wings  in  flight, 

An  upward  gleam  of  lessening  white, 

So  passed  the  vision,  sound  and  sight. 

But  round  me,  like  a  silver  bell 
Rung  down  the  listening  sky  to  tell 
Of  holy  help,  a  sweet  voice  fell. 

"Still  hope  and  trust,"  it  sang;  "the  rod 
Must  fall,  the  wine-press  must  be  trod, 
But  all  is  possible  with  God !" 


[leg] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


Barbara  Frietchie 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall,- 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down ; 


163 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


In  her  attic-window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced:  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"Halt!" — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast, 
"Fire!" — out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word: 


[164] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 


"Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog !     March  on  !"  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet: 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town ! 


165] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

What  the  Birds  Said 

The  birds  against  the  April  wind 

Flew  northward^  singing  as  they  flew ; 

They  sang,  "The  land  we  leave  behind 

Has  swords  for  corn-blades,  blood  for  dew." 

"O  wild-birds,  flying  from  the  South, 
What  saw  and  heard  ye,  gazing  down?" 

"We  saw  the  mortar's  upturned  mouth, 
The  sickened  camp,  the  blazing  town ! 

"Beneath  the  bivouac's  starry  lamps, 
We  saw  your  march-worn  children  die; 

In  shrouds  of  moss,  in  cypress  swamps, 
We  saw  your  dead  uncoffined  lie. 

"We  heard  the  starving  prisoner's  sighs, 
And  saw,  from  line  and  trench,  your  sons 

Follow  our  flight  with  home-sick  eyes 
Beyond  the  battery's  smoking  guns." 

"And  heard  and  saw  ye  only  wrong 

And  pain,"  I  cried,  "O  wing-worn  flocks?" 

"We  heard,"  they  sang,  "the  freedman's  song, 
The  crash  of  Slavery's  broken  locks  ! 

"We  saw  from  new,  uprising  States 
The  treason-nursing  mischief  spurned, 

As,  crowding  Freedom's  ample  gates, 
The  long-estranged  and  lost  returned. 

[166] 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER     1807-1892 

"O'er  dusky  faces,,  seamed  and  old,, 

And  hands  horn-hard  with  unpaid  toil, 

With  hope  in  every  rustling  fold, 
We  saw  your  star-dropt  flag  uncoil. 

"And  struggling  up  through  sounds  accursed, 
A  grateful  murmur  clomb  the  -air ; 

A  whisper  scarcely  heard  at  first, 

It  filled  the  listening  heavens  with  prayer. 

"And  sweet  and  far^  as  from  a  star, 
Replied  a  voice  which  shall  not  cease, 

Till,  drowning  all  the  noise  of  war, 
It  sings  the  blessed  song  of  peace !" 

So  to  me,  in  a  doubtful  day 

Of  chill  and  slowly  greening  spring, 

Low  stooping  from  the  cloudy  gray, 
The  wild-birds  sang  or  seemed  to  sing. 

They  vanished  in  the  misty  air, 

The  song  went  with  them  in  their  flight ; 

But  lo !  they  left  the  sunset  fair, 
And  in  the  evening  there  was  light. 


[167] 


RAY  PALMER     1808-1887 


Faith 

My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee, 
Thou  Lamb  of  Calvary, 

Saviour  divine ! 
Now  hear  me  while  I  pray, 
Take  all  my  guilt  away, 
O  let  me  from  this  day 

Be  wholly  Thine ! 

May  Thy  rich  grace  impart 
Strength  to  my  fainting  heart, 

My  zeal  inspire; 
As  Thou  hast  died  for  me, 
O  may  my  love  for  Thee 
Pure,  warm,  and  changeless  be,- 

A  living  fire ! 

While  life's  dark  maze  I  tread, 
And  griefs  around  me  spread, 

Be  Thou  my  guide; 
Bid  darkness  turn  to  day, 
Wipe  sorrow's  tears  away, 
Nor  let  me  ever  stray 

From  Thee  aside. 


168] 


RAY  PALMER     1808-1887 


When  ends  life's  transient  dream, 
When  death's  cold,  sullen  stream 

Shall  o'er  me  roll; 
Blest  Saviour,  then,  in  love, 
Fear  and  distrust  remove; 
O  bear  me  safe  above, 

A  ransomed  soul ! 


169] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


The  Raven 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I   pondered,  weak 

and  weary, 
Over   many   a   quaint   and   curious    volume   of   forgotten 

lore, — 
While   I   nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came 

a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber 

door. 
'T  is  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "tapping  at  my  chamber 

door; 
Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon 

the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow; — vainly  I  had  sought  to 

borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the  lost 

Lenore, 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore : 
Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And   the    silken   sad   uncertain   rustling   of   each  purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt 

before ; 

[170] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


So  that  now,,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,   I   stood 

repeating 
"  'T  is  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door, 
Some   late    visitor    entreating    entrance    at    my    chamber 

door: 
This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently   my    soul    grew   stronger;   hesitating   then   no 

longer, 
"Sir/5    said    I,    "or    Madam,    truly    your    forgiveness    I 

implore ; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 

rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber 

door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here  I  opened  wide 

the  door: — 
Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep    into   that   darkness    peering,   long   I    stood   there 

wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,   dreaming   dreams   no   mortals   ever   dared   to 

dream  before; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no 

token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word, 

"Lenore?" 


[171} 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word, 

"Lenore:" 
Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 

burning, 
Soon   again    I    heard   a   tapping   somewhat   louder    than 

before. 
"Surely,"  said  I,  "surely  that  is  something  at  my  window 

lattice ; 
Let    me   see,    then,    what    thereat    is,    and    this    mystery 

explore ; 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  explore: 
'T  is  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt 

and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of 

yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped 

or  stayed  he; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber 

door, 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door: 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 
wore, — 

[172] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,,  thou,"  I   said, 

"art  sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly   grim   and   ancient    Raven   wandering  from  the 

Nightly  shore: 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian 

shore !" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse 

so  plainly, 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber 

door, 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber 

door, 
With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke 

only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his   soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 

outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  not  a  feather  then  he 

fluttered, 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered, — "Other  friends  have 

flown  before ; 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have  flown 

before." 
Then  the  bird  said,,  "Nevermore." 

[178} 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"Doubtless/'  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and 

store, 
Caught    from    some   unhappy   master    whom    unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed    fast    and    followed    faster    till    his    songs    one 

burden  bore: 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 
Of  'Never — nevermore.'  ' 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  fancy  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and 

bust  and  door ; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto   fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of 

yore, 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous 

bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's 
core; 

This    and   more    I    sat   divining,   with   my  head   at   ease 
reclining 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamplight  gloated 
o'er, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light  gloat 
ing  o'er 
She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore ! 


EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE     1809-1849 


Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an 

unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the  tufted 

floor. 
"Wretch/'   I   cried,  "thy   God  hath  lent  thee — by  these 

angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite    and  nepenthe    from   thy   memories    of 

Lenore !" 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost 

Lenore." 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!  prophet  still,  if  bird 
or  devil ! 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 
here  ashore, 

Desolate    yet    all    undaunted,    on    this    desert    land    en 
chanted — 

On    this    home    by    Horror    haunted — tell    me    truly,    I 
implore : 

Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead? — tell  me — tell  me,  I 

implore !" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil — prophet  still,  if  bird 

or  devil! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we 

both  adore, 
Tell  this   soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 

[175] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore : 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore !" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Be  that   word  our  sign   of  parting,  bird  or   fiend !"   I 
shrieked,  upstarting: 

"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the   Night's   Plu 
tonian  shore ! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath 
spoken ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken !  quit  the  bust  above  my 
door ! 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy   form 

from  off  my  door !" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

And   the    Raven,   never    flitting,   still   is    sitting,   still   is 

sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is 

dreaming, 
And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow 

on  the  floor: 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on 

the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 


[176] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


To  One  in  Paradise 

Thou  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine: 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine 
All  wreathed  with   fairy  fruits   and  flowers, 

And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last! 

Ah,  starry  Hope,  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
"On !  on  !"— but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf!)   my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast. 

For,  alas  !  alas  !  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er ! 

No  more — no  more — no  more — 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar. 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  gray  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

[177] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


The  Haunted  Palace 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace — 

Radiant  palace — reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion, 

It  stood  there; 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This — all  this — was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago), 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting, 

Porphyrogene, 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 


178] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate ; 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate  !) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed, 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody ; 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 


179] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


The  Conqueror  Worm 

Lo !  't  is  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years. 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theatre  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low, 
And  hither  and  thither  fly ; 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  condor  wings 

Invisible  Woe. 

That  motley  drama — oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not, 
Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  self-same  spot; 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

[180] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


But  see  amid  the  mimic  rout 

A  crawling  shape  intrude: 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude ! 
It  writhes — it  writhes! — with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food, 
And  the  seraphs  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbued. 

Out — out  are  the  lights — out  all ! 

And  over  each  quivering  form 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 
While  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "Man," 

And  its  hero,  the  Conqueror  Worm. 


181  ] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


The  Bells 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells, 

Silver  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars,  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 

Golden  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon ! 
Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 

[  182  ] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE     1809-1849 


What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells, 

Brazen  bells ! 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire, 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  Despair ! 


[183 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, — 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 

Iron  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels  ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night 
How  we  .shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people, 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 


184 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman, 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human, 

They  are  Ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls 

A  paean  from  the  bells; 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells, 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells: 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  rolling  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells: 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 

( 

[185] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


Annabel  Lee 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 

And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee ; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 


186] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me ; 
Yes !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee: 

For  the   moon   never   beams,   without   bringing   me 
dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


[187] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


Ulalume 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere, 

The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere; 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year ; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir: 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic 
Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul— 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll, 
As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole, 

That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere, 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere, 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 
And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year, 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year!) 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber 


188] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here), 
Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber 
Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 

As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn, 
At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 

And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 
Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 

Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn, 
Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said — "She  is  warmer  than  Dian: 

She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs, 

She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs : 
She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 
And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 

To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies, 

To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies: 
Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes : 
Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 

With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 
Said — "Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust, 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust: 

Oh,  hasten ! — oh^  let  us  not  linger ! 

[189] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


Oh,  fly  ! — let  us  fly !  for  we  must." 
In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 

Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust, 
In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust, 

Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

I  replied — "This  is  nothing  but  dreaming: 

Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light ! 

Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 
Its  sibyllic  splendor  is  beaming 

With  hope  and  in  beauty  to-night: 

See,  it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night ! 
Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright: 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 

That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright, 

Since    it    flickers    up    to    Heaven    through    the 
night." 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom, 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 
But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb, 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb ; 

And  I  said — "What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb?" 
She  replied — "Ulalume — Ulalume — 
'T  is  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume !" 


190] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 
As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere,, 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere, 

And  I  cried — "It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I  journeyed — I  journeyed  down  here, 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here : 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir: 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 


[191] 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE     1809-1849 


To  Helen 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicaean  barks  of  yore, 
That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 

The  weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 

To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs,  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo !  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand ! 
Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holv  Land! 


[192} 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


The  Last  Leaf 

I  saw  him  once  before, 
As  lie  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 


[193 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago— 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, — 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 


194} 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


The  Dilemma 

Now,  by  the  blessed  Paphian  queen, 
Who  heaves  the  breast  of  sweet  sixteen; 
By  every  name  I  cut  on  bark 
Before  my  morning  star  grew  dark; 
By  Hymen's  torch,  by  Cupid's  dart, 
By  all  that  thrills  the  beating  heart ; 
The  bright  black  eye,  the  melting  blue, — 
I  cannot  choose  between  the  two. 

I  had  a  vision  in  my  dreams ; — 
I  saw  a  row  of  twenty  beams ; 
From  every  beam  a  rope  was  hung, 
In  every  rope  a  lover  swung; 
I  asked  the  hue  of  every  eye, 
That  bade  each  luckless  lover  die; 
Ten  shadowy  lips  said,  heavenly  blue, 
And  ten  accused  the  darker  hue. 

I  asked  a  matron  which  she  deemed 

With  fairest  light  of  beauty  beamed; 

She  answered,  some  thought  both  were  fair,- 

Give  her  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 

I  might  have  liked  her  judgment  well, 

But,  as  she  spoke,  she  rung  the  bell, 

And  all  her  girls,  nor  small  nor  few, 

Came  marching  in, — their  eyes  were  blue. 


195] 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1891 

I  asked  a  maiden ;  back  she  flung 

The  locks  that  round  her  forehead  hung, 

And  turned  her  eye,  a  glorious  one, 

Bright  as  a  diamond  in  the  sun, 

On  me,,  until  beneath  its  rays 

I  felt  as  if  my  hair  would  blaze; 

She  liked  all  eyes  but  eyes  of  green; 

She  looked  at  me;  what  could  she  mean? 

Ah !  many  lids  Love  lurks  between, 
Nor  heeds  the  coloring  of  his  screen ; 
And  when  his  random  arrows  fly, 
The  victim  falls,  but  knows  not  why. 
Gaze  not  upon  his  shield  of  jet, 
The  shaft  upon  the  string  is  set; 
Look  not  beneath  his  azure  veil, 
Though  every  limb  were  cased  in  mail. 

Well,  both  might  make  a  martyr  break 
The  chain  that  bound  him  to  the  stake; 
And  both,  with  but  a  single  ray, 
Can  melt  our  very  hearts  away ; 
And  both,  when  balanced,  hardly  seem 
To  stir  the  scales,  or  rock  the  beam; 
But  that  is  dearest,  all  the  while, 
That  wears  for  us  the  sweetest  smile. 


196  ] 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1891 


My  Aunt 

My  aunt!  my  dear  unmarried  aunt! 

Long  years  have  o'er  her  flown ; 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone; 
I  know  it  hurts  her, — though  she  looks 

As  cheerful  as  she  can ; 
Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 

For  life  is  but  a  span. 

My  aunt !  my  poor  deluded  aunt ! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray; 
Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 

In  such  a  springlike  way  ? 
How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down, 

And  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When,  through  a  double  convex  lens, 

She  just  makes  out  to  spell? 

Her  father — grandpapa  !  forgive 

This  erring  lip  its  smiles — 
Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 

Within  a  hundred  miles ; 
He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school ; 

'T  was  in  her  thirteenth  June; 
And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required, 

"Two  towels  and  a  spoon." 


[197] 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board, 

To  make  her  straight  and  tall; 
They  laced  her  up,,  they  starved  her  down, 

To  make  her  light  and  small; 
They  pinched  her  feet,  they  singed  her  hair, 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins ; — 
O  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done, 

My  grandsire  brought  her  back; 
(By  daylight,  lest  some  rabid  youth 

Might  follow  on  the  track;) 
"Ah !"  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
"What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  man  \" 

Alas  !  nor  chariot,  nor  barouche, 

Nor  bandit  cavalcade, 
Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 

His  all-accomplished  maid. 
For  her  how  happy  had  it  been ! 

And  Heaven  had  spared  to  me 
To  see  one  sad,  ungathered  rose 

On  my  ancestral  tree. 


[198 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

To  the  Portrait  of  "A  Lady" 
In  the  Athenceum  Gallery. 

Well,  Miss,  I  wonder  where  you  live, 

I  wonder  what 's  your  name, 
I  wonder  how  you  came  to  be 

In  such  a  stylish  frame ; 
Perhaps  you  were  a  favorite  child, 

Perhaps  an  only  one; 
Perhaps  your  friends  were  not  aware 

You  had  your  portrait  done ! 

Yet  you  must  be  a  harmless  soul ; 

I  cannot  think  that  Sin 
Would  care  to  throw  his  loaded  dice, 

With  such  a  stake  to  win; 
I  cannot  think  you  would  provoke 

The  poet's  wicked  pen, 
Or  make  young  women  bite  their  lips, 

Or  ruin  fine  young  men. 

Pray,  did  you  ever  hear,  my  love, 

Of  boys  that  go  about, 
Who,  for  a  very  trifling  sum, 

Will  snip  one's  picture  out  ? 
I  'm  not  averse  to  red  and  white, 

But  all  things  have  their  place, 
I  think  a  profile  cut  in  black 

Would  suit  your  style  of  face! 

[199] 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


I  love  sweet  features ;  I  will  own 

That  I  should  like  myself 
To  see  my  portrait  on  a  wall, 

Or  bust  upon  a  shelf; 
But  nature  sometimes  makes  one  up 

Of  such  sad  odds  and  ends,, 
It  really  might  be  quite  as  well 

Hushed  up  among  one's  friends  ! 


The  Music-Grinders 

There  are  three  ways  in  which  men  take 
One's  money  from  his  purse, 

And  very  hard  it  is  to  tell 
Which  of  the  three  is  worse; 

But  all  of  them  are  bad  enough 
To  make  a  body  curse. 

You  're  riding  out  some  pleasant  day, 
And  counting  up  your  gains ; 

A  fellow  jumps  from  out  a  bush, 
And  takes  your  horse's  reins, 

Another  hints  some  words  about 
A  bullet  in  your  brains. 


[200 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


It 's  hard  to  meet  such  pressing  friends 

In  such  a  lonely  spot; 
It 's  very  hard  to  lose  your  cash, 

But  harder  to  be  shot; 
And  so  you  take  your  wallet  out, 

Though  you  would  rather  not. 

Perhaps  you  're  going  out  to  dine, — 

Some  odious  creature  begs 
You  '11  hear  about  the  cannon-ball 

That  carried  off  his  pegs, 
And  says  it  is  a  dreadful  thing 

For  men  to  lose  their  legs. 

He  tells  you  of  his  starving  wife, 

His  children  to  be  fed, 
•Poor  little,  lovely  innocents, 

All  clamorous  for  bread, — 
And  so  you  kindly  help  to  put 

A  bachelor  to  bed. 

You  're  sitting  on  your  window-seat, 

Beneath  a  cloudless  moon; 
You  hear  a  sound,  that  seems  to  wear 

The  semblance  of  a  tune, 
As  if  a  broken  fife  should  strive 

To  drown  a  cracked  bassoon. 

And  nearer,  nearer  still,  the  tide 

Of  music  seems  to  come, 
There  's  something  like  a  human  voice, 

And  something  like  a  drum; 

[201  ] 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

You  sit  in  speechless  agony, 
Until  your  ear  is  numb. 

Poor  "home,  sweet  home"  should  seem  to  be 

A  very  dismal  place ; 
Your  "atild  acquaintance"  all  at  once 

Is  altered  in  the  face; 
Their  discords  sting  through  Burns  and  Moore, 

Like  hedgehogs  dressed  in  lace. 

You  think  they  are  crusaders,  sent 

From  some  infernal  clime, 
To  pluck  the  eyes  of  Sentiment, 

And  dock  the  tail  of  Rhyme, 
To  crack  the  voice  of  Melody, 

And  break  the  legs  of  Time. 

But  hark !  the  air  again  is  still, 

The  music  all  is  ground, 
And  silence,  like  a  poultice,  comes 

To  heal  the  blows  of  sound; 
It  cannot  be, — it  is, — it  is, — 

A  hat  is  going  round ! 

No !     Pay  the  dentist  when  he  leaves 

A  fracture  in  your  jaw, 
And  pay  the  owner  of  the  bear 

That  stunned  you  with  his  paw, 
And  buy  the  lobster  that  has  had 

Your  knuckles  in  his  claw; 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

But  if  you  are  a  portly  man, 

Put  on  your  fiercest  frown, 
And  talk  about  a  constable 

To  turn  them  out  of  town ; 
Then  close  your  sentence  with  an  oath, 

And  shut  the  window  down ! 

And  if  you  are  a  slender  man, 

Not  big  enough  for  that, 
Or,  if  you  cannot  make  a  speech, 

Because  you  are  a  flat, 
Go  very  quietly  and  drop 

A  button  in  the  hat ! 


Lexington 

Slowly  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creeping, 

Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened  the  sun, 
When  from  his  couch,  while  his  children  were  sleeping, 
Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his  gun. 

Waving  her  golden  veil 

Over  the  silent  dale, 
Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage  and  spire ; 

Hushed  was  his  parting  sigh, 

While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


On  the  smooth  green  where  the  fresh  leaf  is  springing 

Calmly  the  first-born  of  glory  have  met; 
Hark !  the  death-volley  around  them  is  ringing ! 
Look !  with  their  life-blood  the  young  grass  is  wet ! 

Faint  is  the  feeble  breath,, 

Murmuring  low  in  death, 
"Tell  to  our  sons  how  their  fathers  have  died" ; 

Nerveless  the  iron  hand, 

Raised  for  its  native  land, 
Lies  by  the  weapon  that  gleams  at  its  side. 

Over  the  hillsides  the  wild  knell  is  tolling, 

From  their  far  hamlets  the  yeomanry  come ; 
As  through  the  storm-clouds  the  thunder-burst  rolling, 
Circles  the  beat  of  the  mustering  drum. 

Fast  on  the  soldier's  path 

Darken  the  waves  of  wrath, 
Long  have  they  gathered  and  loud  shall  they  fall ; 

Red  glares  the  musket's  flash, 

Sharp  rings  the  rifle's  crash, 
Blazing  and  clanging  from  thicket  and  wall. 

Gayly  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was  dancing, 

Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again ; 
Proudly  at  morning  the  war-steed  was  prancing, 
Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the  rein; 
Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn, 
Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 


[204] 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


Torn  is  the  silken-fringed  red  cross  on  high; 

Many  a  belted  breast 

Low  on  the  turf  shall  rest, 
Ere  the  dark  hunters  the  herd  have  passed  by. 

Snow-girdled  crags  where  the  hoarse  wind  is  raving, 
Rocks  where  the  weary  floods  murmur  and  wail, 
Wilds  where  the  fern  by  the  furrow  is  waving, 
Reeled  with  the  echoes  that  rode  on  the  gale; 

Far  as  the  tempest  thrills 

Over  the  darkened  hills, 
Far  as  the  sunshine  streams  over  the  plain, 

Roused  by  the  tyrant  band, 

Woke  all  the  mighty  land, 
Girded  for  battle,  from  mountain  to  main. 

Green  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs  are  lying ! 

Shroudless  and  tombless  they  sunk  to  their  rest, — 
While  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  fold  flying 

Wraps  the  proud  eagle  they  roused  from  his  nest. 

Borne  on  her  Northern  pine, 

Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine 
Spread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and  to  sun ; 

Heaven  keep  her  ever  free 

Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 
Floats  the  fair  emblem  her  heroes  have  won ! 


205 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl 

This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine, — it  tells  of  good  old 

times,, 
Of  joyous  days,  and  jolly  nights,  and  merry  Christmas 

chimes ; 
They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but  honest,  brave,  and 

true, 
That  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when  this  old  bowl 

was  new. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar, — so  runs  the  ancient 
tale; 

'T  was  hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith,  whose  arm  was 
like  a  flail ; 

And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for  fear  his 
strength  should  fail, 

He  wiped  his  brow,  and  quaffed  a  cup  of  good  old  Flem 
ish  ale. 

'T  was  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to  please  his  lov 
ing  dame, 

Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a  longing  for  the 
same; 

And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another  twig  was  found, 

'T  was  filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot,  and  handed 
smoking  round. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


But,    changing   hands,    it   reached    at   length   a    Puritan 

divine, 

Who  used  to  follow  Timothy  ^  and  take  a  little  wine, 
But  hated  punch  and  prelacy ;  and  so  it  was,  perhaps, 
He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  conventicles  and 

schnaps. 

And  then,  of  course,  you  know  what 's  next, — it  left  the 

Dutchman's  shore 
With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came, — a  hundred  souls 

and  more, — 

Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their  new  abodes, 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least  a  hundred 

loads. 

'T  was  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night  was  closing 

dim, 
When  brave  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl,  and  filled  it 

to  the  brim; 
The  little  Captain  stood  and  stirred  the  posset  with  his 

sword, 
And  all  his  sturdy  men-at-arms  were  ranged  about  the 

board. 

He  poured  the  fiery  Hollands  in, — the  man  that  never 

feared, — 
He   took    a   long   and   solemn   draught,    and   wiped   his 

yellow  beard; 


[207] 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


And  one  by  one  the  musketeers — the  men  that   fought 

and  prayed — 
All  drank  as  't  were  their  mother's  milk,  and  not  a  man 

afraid. 

That  night.,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the  screaming  eagle 

flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  ringing  whoop,  the  soldier's  wild 

halloo ; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  lie  taught  to  kith 

and  kin, 
"Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find  he  smells  of 

Hollands  gin !" 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had  spread  their  leaves 

and  snows, 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each  little  cherub's 

nose, 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but  not  in  mirth 

or  joy, 
'T  was  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to  cheer  her  parting 

boy. 

Drink,  John,  she  said,  't  will  do  you  good, — poor  child, 

you  '11  never  bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in  the  midnight 

air; 


[208 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


And  if  —  God  bless  me!  —  you  were  hurt,   'twould  keep 

away  the  chill; 
So  John  did  drink,  —  and  well  he  wrought  that  night  at 

Bunker's  Hill  ! 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in  good  old  Eng 

lish  cheer; 
I  tell  you,  't  was  a  pleasant  thought  to  bring  its  symbol 

here. 
'T  is  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess  ;  —  hast  thou  a  drunken 

soul  ? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my  silver  bowl  ! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the  past,  —  its  pressed  yet  fragrant 

flowers,  — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls,  —  the  ivy  on  its 

towers  ;  — 
Nay,   this   poor  bawble   it   bequeathed,  —  my   eyes    grow 

moist  and  dim, 
To  think  of  all  the  vanished  joys  that  danced  around  its 

brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it  straight  to 

me; 

The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate'er  the  liquid  be  ; 
And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect  me  from  the  sin 
That   dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words,  —  "My  dear, 

where  have  you  been  ?" 


209} 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


The  Parting  Word 

I  must  leave  thee,  lady  sweet! 
Months  shall  waste  before  we  meet; 
Winds  are  fair,  and  sails  are  spread, 
Anchors  leave  their  ocean  bed; 
Ere  this  shining  day  grow  dark, 
Skies  shall  gird  my  shoreless  bark ; 
Through  thy  tears,  O  lady  mine, 
Read  thy  lover's  parting  line. 

When  the  first  sad  sun  shall  set, 
Thou  shalt  tear  thy  locks  of  jet; 
When  the  morning  star  shall  rise, 
Thou  shalt  wake  with  weeping  eyes; 
When  the  second  sun  goes  down, 
Thou  more  tranquil  shalt  be  grown, 
Taught  too  well  that  wild  despair 
Dims  thine  eyes,  and  spoils  thy  hair. 

All  the  first  unquiet  week 
Thou  shalt  wear  a  smileless  cheek; 
In  the  first  month's  second  half 
Thou  shalt  once  attempt  to  laugh; 
Then  in  Pickwick  thou  shalt  dip, 
Slightly  puckering  round  the  lip, 
Till  at  last,  in  sorrow's  spite, 
Samuel  makes  thee  laugh  outright. 


[210 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


While  the  first  seven  mornings  last, 
Round  thy  chamber  bolted  fast, 
Many  a  youth  shall  fume  and  pout, 
"Hang  the  girl,  she  's  always  out!" 
While  the  second  week  goes  round, 
Vainly  shall  they  ring  and  pound ; 
When  the  third  week  shall  begin, 
"Martha,  let  the  creature  in." 

Now  once  more  the  flattering  throng 
Round  thee  flock  with  smile  and  song, 
But  thy  lips,  unweaned  as  yet, 
Lisp,  "O,  how  can  I  forget !" 
Men  and  devils  both  contrive 
Traps  for  catching  girls  alive; 
Eve  was  duped,  and  Helen  kissed, — 
How,  O  how  can  you  resist  ? 

First  be  careful  of  your  fan, 
Trust  it  not  to  youth  or  man ; 
Love  has  filled  a  pirate's  sail 
Often  with  its  perfumed  gale. 
Mind  your  kerchief  most  of  all, 
Fingers  touch  when  kerchiefs  fall; 
Shorter  ell  than  mercers  clip 
Is  the  space  from  hand  to  lip. 


[211} 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


Trust  not  such  as  talk  in  tropes, 
Full  of  pistols,,  daggers.,  ropes; 
All  the  hemp  that  Russia  bears 
Scarce  would  answer  lovers'  prayers ; 
Never  thread  was  spun  so  fine, 
Never  spider  stretched  the  line, 
Would  not  hold  the  lovers  true 
That  wrould  really  swing  for  you. 

Fiercely  some  shall  storm  and  swear, 
Beating  breasts  in  black  despair ; 
Others  murmur  with  a  sigh. 
You  must  melt,  or  they  will  die ; 
Painted  words  on  empty  lies, 
Grubs  with  wings  like  butterflies ; 
Let  them  die,  and  welcome,  too; 
Pray  what  better  could  they  do? 

Fare  thee  well,  if  years  efface 
From  thy  heart  love's  burning  trace, 
Keep,  O  keep  that  hallowed  seat 
From  the  tread  of  vulgar  feet; 
If  the  blue  lips  of  the  sea 
Wait  with  icy  kiss  for  me, 
Let  not  thine  forget  the  vow, 
Sealed  how  often,  Love,  as  now. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


The  Star  and  the  Water-Lily 

The  sun  stepped  down  from  his  golden  throne, 

And  lay  in  the  silent  sea, 
And  the  Lily  had  folded  her  satin  leaves, 

For  a  sleepy  thing  was  she ; 
What  is  the  Lily  dreaming  of? 

Why  crisp  the  waters  blue? 
See,  see,,  she  is  lifting  her  varnished  lid ! 

Her  white  leaves  are  glistening  through ! 

The  Rose  is  cooling  his  burning  cheek 

In  the  lap  of  the  breathless  tide ; — 
The  Lily  hath  sisters  fresh  and  fair, 

That  would  lie  by  the  Rose's  side; 
He  would  love  her  better  than  all  the  rest, 

And  he  would  be  fond  and  true ; — 
But  the  Lily  unfolded  her  weary  lids, 

And  looked  at  the  sky  so  blue. 

Remember,  remember,  thou  silly  one, 

How  fast  will  thy  summer  glide, 
And  wilt  thou  wither  a  virgin  pale, 

Or  flourish  a  blooming  bride? 
"O  the  rose  is  old,  and  thorny,  and  cold, 

And  he  lives  on  earth,"  said  she ; 
"But  the  Star  is  fair  and  he  lives  in  the  air, 

And  he  shall  my  bridegroom  be." 


[213] 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


But  what  if  the  stormy  cloud  should  come, 

And  ruffle  the  silver  sea? 
Would  he  turn  his  eye  from  the  distant  sky, 

To  smile  on  a  thing  like  thee  ? 
O  no,  fair  Lily,  he  will  not  send 

One  ray  from  his  far-off  throne; 
The  winds  shall  blow  and  the  waves  shall  flow, 

And  thou  wilt  be  left  alone. 

There  is  not  a  leaf  on  the  mountain-top 

Nor  a  drop  of  evening  dew, 
Nor  a  golden  sand  on  the  sparkling  shore, 

Nor  a  pearl  in  the  waters  blue, 
That  he  has  not  cheered  with  his  fickle  smile, 

And  warmed  with  his  faithless  beam, — 
And  will  he  be  true  to  a  pallid  flower, 

That  floats  on  the  quiet  stream  ? 

Alas  for  the  Lily !  she  would  not  heed, 

But  turned  to  the  skies  afar, 
And  bared  her  breast  to  the  trembling  ray 

That  shot  from  the  rising  star; 
The  cloud  came  over  the  darkened  sky, 

And  over  the  waters  wide: 
She  looked  in  vain  through  the  beating  rain, 

And  sank  in  the  stormy  tide. 


[214 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


The  Philosopher  to  His  Love 

Dearest^  a  look  is  but  a  ray 
Reflected  in  a  certain  way; 
A  word;  whatever  tone  it  wear, 
Is  but  a  trembling  wave  of  air; 
A  touch;  obedience  to  a  clause 
In  nature's  pure  material  laws. 

The  very  flowers  that  bend  and  meet, 

In  sweetening  others,,  grow  more  sweet; 

The  clouds  by  day.,  the  stars  by  night; 

Inweave  their  floating  locks  of  light; 

The  rainbow;  Heaven's  own  forehead's  braid; 

Is  but  the  embrace  of  sun  and  shade. 

How  few  that  love  us  have  we  found ! 

How  wide  the  world  that  girds  them  round! 

Like  mountain  streams  we  meet  and  part; 

Each  living  in  the  other's  heart; 

Our  course  unknown;  our  hope  to  be 

Yet  mingled  in  the  distant  sea. 

But  Ocean  coils  and  heaves  in  vain; 
Bound  in  the  subtle  moonbeam's  chain; 
And  love  and  hope  do  but  obey 
Some  cold;  capricious  planet's  ray. 
Which  lights  and  leads  the  tide  it  charms 
To  Death's  dark  caves  and  icy  arms. 


{215 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

Alas !  one  narrow  line  is  drawn, 
That  links  our  sunset  with  our  dawn; 
In  mist  and  shade  life's  morning  rose, 
And  clouds  are  round  it  at  its  close; 
But  ah!  no  twilight  beam  ascends 
To  whisper  where  that  evening  ends. 

Oh !  in  the  hour  when  I  shall  feel 
Those  shadows  round  my  senses  steal, 
When  gentle  eyes  are  weeping  o'er 
The  clay  that  feels  their  tears  no  more, 
Then  let  thy  spirit  with  me  be, 
Or  some  sweet  angel,  likest  thee ! 


The  Ballad  of  the  Oyster  man 

It  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  by  the  river-side, 
His  shop  was  just  upon  the  bank,  his  boat  was  on  the 

tide; 
The  daughter  of  a  fisherman,  that  was  so  straight  and 

slim, 
Lived  over  on  the  other  bank,  right  opposite  to  him. 

It  was  the  pensive  oysterman  that  saw  a  lovely  maid, 
Upon  a  moonlight  evening,  a  sitting  in  the  shade ; 
He  saw  her  wave  her  handkerchief  as  much  as  if  to  say, 
"I  'm  wide  awake,  young  oysterman,  and  all  the   folks 
away." 


216  ] 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


Then  up  arose  the  oysterman,  and  to  himself  said  he,, 

"I  guess  I  '11  leave  the  skiff  at  home,  for  fear  that  folks 

should  see; 

I  read  it   in  the  story-book,,  that,  for  to  kiss  his  dear, 
Leander   swam   the    Hellespont, — and    I    will   swim  this 

here." 

And  he  has  leaped  into  the  waves,  and  crossed  the  sliming 

stream, 
And  he  has  clambered  up  the  bank,  all  in  the  moonlight 

gleam ; 

0  there  were  kisses  sweet  as  dew,  and  words  as  soft  as 

rain, — 

But  they  have  heard  her  father's  step,  and  in  he  leaps 
again ! 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman, — "O  what  was  that,  my 

daughter?" 
'  'T  was    nothing    but    a   pebble,    sir,    I    threw   into    the 

water." 
"And  what  is  that,  pray  tell  me,  love,  that  paddles  off  so 

fast?" 
"It 's  nothing  but  a  porpoise,  sir,  that 's  been  a  swimming 

past." 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman, — "Now  bring  me  my 
harpoon ! 

1  '11  get  into  my  fishing-boat,  and  fix  the  fellow  soon." 


217] 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


Down   fell  that  pretty   innocent,,   as   falls   a   snow-white 

lamb, 
Her  hair  drooped  round  her  pallid  cheeks,  like  seaweed 

on  a  clam. 

Alas  for  those  two  loving  ones !  she  waked  not  from  her 

swound, 
And  he  was  taken  with  the  cramp,  and  in  the  waves  was 

drowned ; 

But  Fate  has  metamorphosed  them,  in  pity  of  their  woe, 
And  now  they  keep  an  oyster-shop  for  mermaids  down 

below. 


The  Deacon 's  Masterpiece: 
or  The  Wonderful  "One-Hoss  Shay' 

A   LOGICAL  STORY 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  then  of  a  sudden,  it — all,  but  stay, 

I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits, — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 


218 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive, — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 

There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot, — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace, — lurking  still, 

Find  it  somewhere,  you  must  and  will, — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without, — 

And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 

A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  doesn't  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "I  tell  yeou,") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  could  n'  break  daown; 
— "Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  't  's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan*  the  strain; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

[219} 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 

Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 

That  could  n't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke, — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills ; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees ; 

The  panels  of  whitewood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "Settler's  ellum,"- 

Last  of  its  timber, — they  could  n't  sell  'em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips ; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue ; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide ; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 

Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 

That  was  the  way  he  "put  her  through." — 

"There !"  said  the  Deacon,  "naow  she  '11  dew !" 

Do !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less  ! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren, — where  were  they? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED; — it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten; — 
"Hahnsum  kerridge"  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came; — 
Running  as  usual;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  came  fifty,  and  FIFTY-FIVE. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there  's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large; 

Take  it. — You  're  welcome. — No  extra  charge.) 

FIRST  OF  NOVEMBER, — the  Earthquake-day. — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 
A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local  as  one  may  say. 
There  could  n't  be, — for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 


221 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

"Huddup !"  said  the  parson. — Off  went  they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text, — 

Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 

At  what  the — Moses — was  coming  next. 

All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 

Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 

—First  a  shiver^  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 
At  half  past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house  clock, — 
Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock! 

— What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once, — 
All  at  once,  and  nothing  first, — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That  's  all  I  say. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 


"Qui   Vive" 

"Qui  vive!"    The  sentry's  musket  rings, 

The  channelled  bayonet  gleams ; 
High  o'er  him,  like  a  raven's  wings 
The  broad  tri-colored  banner  flings 
Its  shadow,  rustling  as  it  swings 

Pale  in  the  moonlight  beams; 
Pass  on !  while  steel-clad  sentries  keep 
Their  vigil  o'er  the  monarch's  sleep, 

Thy  bare,  unguarded  breast 
Asks  not  the  unbroken,  bristling  zone 
That  girds  yon  sceptred  trembler's  throne  ;- 

Pass  on,  and  take  thy  rest ! 

"Qui  vive.'"     How  oft  the  midnight  air 

That  startling  cry  has  borne ! 
How  oft  the  evening  breeze  has  fanned 
The  banner  of  this  haughty  land, 
O'er  mountain  snow  and  desert  sand, 

Ere  yet  its  folds  were  torn ! 
Through  Jena's  carnage  flying  red, 
Or  tossing  o'er  Marengo's  dead, 

Or  curling  on  the  towers 
Where  Austria's  eagle  quivers  yet, 
And  suns  the  ruffled  plumage,  wet 

With  battle's  crimson  showers ! 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

"Qui  vive!"     And  is  the  sentry's  cry, — 

The  sleepless  soldier's  hand, — 
Are  these — the  painted  folds  that  fly 
And  lift  their  emblems,  printed  high 
On  morning  mist  and  sunset  sky — 

The  guardians  of  a  land  ? 
No !     If  the  patriot's  pulses  sleep, 
How  vain  the  watch  that  hirelings  keep, — 

The  idle  flag  that  waves, 
When  Conquest,  with  his  iron  heel, 
Treads  down  the  standards  and  the  steel 

That  belt  the  soil  of  slaves ! 


The  Voiceless 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumber, 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 

The  wild-flowers  who  will  stoop  to  number? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them: — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them ! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts'  sad  story ,- 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 

The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory ! 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 
O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 

But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 
On  nameless  sorrow's  churchyard  pillow. 

O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery's  crushing  presses,- 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven !  • 


Under  the  Washington  Elm,  Cambridge 
April  27,  1861 

Eighty  years  have  passed,  and  more, 

Since  under  the  brave  old  tree 
Our  fathers  gathered  in  arms,  and  swore 
They  would  follow  the  sign  their  banners  bore, 

And  fight  till  the  land  was  free. 

Half  of  their  work  was  done, 

Half  is  left  to  do,— 

Cambridge,  and  Concord,  and  Lexington! 
When  the  battle  is  fought  and  won, 

What  shall  be  told  of  you? 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

Hark ! — 't  is  the  south-wind  moans,, — 

Who  are  the  martyrs  down? 

Ah,  the  marrow  was  true  in  your  children's  bones 
That  sprinkled  with  blood  the  cursed  stones 

Of  the  murder-haunted  town! 

What  if  the  storm-clouds  blow? 

What  if  the  green  leaves  fall? 
Better  the  crashing  tempest's  throe 
Than  the  army  of  worms  that  gnawed  below; 

Trample  them  one  and  all ! 

Then,  when  the  battle  is  won,, 

And  the  land  from  traitors  free, 
Our  children  shall  tell  of  the  strife  begun 
When  Liberty's  second  April  sun 

Was  bright  on  our  brave  old  tree ! 


The  Chambered  Nautilus 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 

He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings : — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea ! 


A  Voice  of  the  Loyal  North 
National  Fast,  January  4>  1861 

We  sing  "Our  Country's"  song  to-night 

With  saddened  voice  and  eye; 
Her  banner  droops  in  clouded  light 

Beneath  the  wintry  sky. 
We  11  pledge  her  once  in  golden  wine 

Before  her  stars  have  set: 
Though  dim  one  reddening  orb  may  shine, 

We  have  a  Country  yet. 

'T  were  vain  to  sigh  o'er  errors  past, 

The  fault  of  sires  or  sons ; 
Our  soldier  heard  the  threatening  blast, 

And  spiked  his  useless  guns ; 
He  saw  the  star-wreathed  ensign  fall, 

By  mad  invaders  torn ; 
But  saw  it  from  the  bastioned  wall 

That  laughed  their  rage  to  scorn ! 

What  though  their  angry  cry  is  flung 

Across  the  howling  wave, — 
They  smite  the  air  with  idle  tongue 

The  gathering  storm  who  brave; 

[228] 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES     1809-1894 

Enough  of  speech !  the  trumpet  rings ; 

Be  silent,  patient,  calm, — 
God  help  them  if  the  tempest  swings 

The  pine  against  the  palm! 

Our  toilsome  years  have  made  us  tame ; 

Our  strength  has  slept  unfelt; 
The  furnace-fire  is  slow  to  flame 

That  bids  our  ploughshares  melt; 
'T  is  hard  to  lose  the  bread  they  win 

In  spite  of  Nature's  frowns, — 
To  drop  the  iron  threads  we  spin 

That  weave  our  web  of  towns, 

To  see  the  rusting  turbines  stand 

Before  the  emptied  flumes, 
To  fold  the  arms  that  flood  the  land 

With  rivers  from  their  looms, — 
But  harder  still  for  those  who  learn 

The  truth  forgot  so  long; 
When  once  their  slumbering  passions  burn, 

The  peaceful  are  the  strong! 

The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  weak, 

And  calm  their  frenzied  ire, 
And  save  our  brothers  ere  they  shriek, 

"We  played  with  Northern  fire!" 
The  eagle  hold  his  mountain  height, — 

The  tiger  pace  his  den ! 
Give  all  their  country,  each  his  right ! 

God  keep  us  all!    Amen! 


ALBERT  PIKE     1809-1891 


Dixie 

Southrons,  hear  your  Country  call  you ! 
Up,,  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you ! 
To  arms  !     To  arms  !     To  arms,  in  Dixie ! 
Lo !  all  the  beacon-fires  are  lighted, 
Let  all  hearts  be  now  united ! 

To  arms  !     To  arms  !     To  arms  !     in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie ! 

Hurrah !   hurrah ! 

For  Dixie's  land  we  '11  take  our  stand, 
To  live  or  die  for  Dixie! 
To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 

To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter ! 
Northern  flags  in  South  winds  flutter ! 
Send  them  back  your  fierce  defiance ! 
Stamp  upon  the  accursed  alliance ! 

Fear  no  danger  !     Shun  no  labor  ! 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike,  and  sabre ! 
Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 
Let  the  odds  make  eacli  heart  bolder ! 

How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices 
At  your  cannons'  ringing  voices  ! 
For  faith  betrayed  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrongs  inflicted,  insults  spoken. 

[280] 


ALBERT  PIKE     1809-1891 


Strong  as  lions,,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles  ! 

Cut  the  unequal  bonds  asunder! 

Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder ! 

Swear  upon  your  Country's  altar 
Never  to  submit  or  falter, 
Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed. 

Halt  not  till  our  Federation 
Secures  among  earth's  Powers  its  station ! 
Then  at  peace,  and  crowned  with  glory, 
Hear  your  children  tell  the  story ! 

If  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 
Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness ; 

To  arms ! 

Exultant  pride  soon  banish  sorrow, 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow. 

To  arms  !     To  arms  !     To  arms,  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie ! 

Hurrah !   hurrah ! 

For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 
And  live  or  die  for  Dixie ! 
To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie! 

To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 


[231] 


ELIZABETH  (LLOYD)  HOWELL     1811-1896 

Milton's  Prayer  of  Patience 

I  am  old  and  blind ! 

Men  point  at  me  as  smitten  by  God's  frown; 
Afflicted  and  deserted  of  my  kind, 

Yet  am  I  not  cast  down. 

I  am  weak,  yet  strong; 
I  murmur  not  that  I  no  longer  see; 
Poor,  old,  and  helpless,  I  the  more  belong, 

Father  Supreme !  to  Thee. 

All-merciful  One ! 

When  men  are  furthest,  then  art  Thou  most  near, 
When  friends  pass  by,  my  weaknesses  to  shun, 

Thy  chariot  I  hear. 

Thy  glorious  face 

Is  leaning  toward  me,  and  its  holy  light 
Shines  in  upon  my  lonely  dwelling-place, — 

And  there  is  no  more  night. 

On  my  bended  knee 

I  recognize  Thy  purpose  clearly  shown ; 
My  vision  Thou  hast  dimmed,  that  I  may  see 

Thyself — Thyself  alone. 

I  have  naught  to  fear: 

This  darkness  is  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing ; 
Beneath  it  I  am  almost  sacred — here 

Can  come  no  evil  thing. 

[232] 


ELIZABETH  (LLOYD)  HOWELL     1811-1896 

Oh,  I  seem  to  stand 

Trembling,  where  foot  of  mortal  ne'er  hath  been, 
Wrapped  in  that  radiance  from  the  sinless  land, 

Which  eye  hath  never  seen! 

Visions  come  and  go : 

Shapes  of  resplendent  beauty  round  me  throng; 
From  angel  lips  I  seem  to  hear  the  flow 

Of  soft  and  holy  song. 

It  is  nothing  now, 

When  heaven  is  opening  on  my  sightless  eyes, 
When  airs  from  Paradise  refresh  my  brow, 

That  earth  in  darkness  lies. 

In  a  purer  clime 

My  being  fills  with  rapture, — waves  of  thought 
Roll  in  upon  my  spirit, — strains  sublime 

Break  over  me  unsought. 

Give  me  now  my  lyre ! 
I  feel  the  stirrings  of  a  gift  divine: 
Within  my  bosom  glows  unearthly  fire 

Lit  by  no  skill  of  mine. 


ROBERT  HINCKLEY  MESSINGER     1811-1874 


A  Winter  Wish 

Old  wine  to  drink! 

Ay,  give  the  slippery  juice 
That  drippeth  from  the  grape  thrown  loose 

Within  the  tun; 
Plucked  from  beneath  the  cliff 
Of  sunny-sided  Teneriffe, 

And  ripened  'neath  the  blink 

Of  India's  sun ! 

Peat  whiskey  hot, 
Tempered  with  well-boiled  water! 
These  make  the  long  night  shorter, — 

Forgetting  not 
Good  stout  old  English  porter. 

Old  wood  to  burn ! 
Ay,  bring  the  hillside  beech 
From  where  the  owlets  meet  and  screech, 

And  ravens  croak; 

The  crackling  pine,  and  cedar  sweet; 
Bring  too  a  clump  of  fragrant  peat, 
Dug  'neath  the  fern; 
The  knotted  oak, 
A  fagot  too,  perhap, 
Whose  bright  flame,  dancing,  winking, 
Shall  light  us  at  our  drinking; 

While  the  oozing  sap 
Shall  make  sweet  music  to  our  thinking. 

[234] 


ROBERT  HINCKLEY  MESSINGER     1811-1874 

Old  books  to  read! 
Ay,  bring  those  nodes  of  wit,, 
The  brazen-clasped,,  the  vellum  writ, 

Time-honored  tomes ! 
The  same  my  sire  scanned  before, 
The  same  my  grandsire  thumbed  o'er, 
The  same  his  sire  from  college  bore, 
The  well-earned  meed 

Of  Oxford's  domes: 

Old  Homer  blind, 
Old  Horace,  rake  Anacreon,  by 
Old  Tully,  Plautus,  Terence  lie; 
Mort  Arthur's  olden  minstrelsie, 
Quaint  Burton,  quainter  Spenser,  ay ! 
And  Gervase  Markham's  venerie — 

Nor  leave  behind 
The  holye  Book  by  which  we  live  and  die. 

Old  friends  to  talk ! 
Ay,  bring  those  chosen  few, 
The  wise,  the  courtly,  and  the  true, 

So  rarely  found; 

Him  for  my  wine,  him  for  my  stud, 
Him  for  my  easel,  distich,  bud 
In  mountain  walk ! 

Bring  Walter  good, 
With  soulful  Fred,  and  learned  Will, 
And  thee,  my  alter  ego  (dearer  still 

For  every  mood). 

[285] 


ROBERT  HINCKLEY  MESSINGER     1811-1874 

These  add  a  bouquet  to  my  wine ! 
These  add  a  sparkle  to  my  pine ! 

If  these  I  tine, 
Can  books,  or  fire,  or  wine  be  good? 


CHARLES  DAWSON  SHANLY     1811-18T5 

The  Fancy  Shot 

"Rifleman,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot 

Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vidette; 
Ring  me  a  ball  in  the  glittering  spot 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet!" 

"Ah,  Captain !  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead ; 

There  's  music  around  when  my  barrel  's  in  tune !" 
Crack !  went  the  rifle,  the  messenger  sped, 

And  dead  from  his  horse  fell  the  ringing  dragoon. 

"Now,  Rifleman,  steal  through  the  bushes  and  snatch 
From  your  victim  some  trinket  to  hansel  first  blood — 

A  button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch 

That  gleams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond  stud." 

"Oh,  Captain !  I  staggered,  and  sunk  on  my  track, 
When  I  gazed  on  the  face  of  that  fallen  vidette ; 

For  he  looked  so  like  you  as  he  lay  on  his  back 

That  my  heart  rose  upon  me,  and  masters  me  yet. 

"But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket — this  locket  of  gold; 

An  inch  from  the  centre  my  lead  broke  its  way, 
Scarce  grazing  the  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 

Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array." 

"Ha !  Rifleman,  fling  me  the  locket— 't  is  she, 

My  brother's  young  bride,  and  the  fallen  dragoon 

Was  her  husband — Hush  !  soldier,  't  was  Heaven's  decree ; 
We  must  bury  him  here,  by  the  light  of  the  moon ! 

[237} 


CHARLES  DAWSON  SHANLY     1811-1875 

"But,  hark!  the  far  bugles  their  warnings  unite; 

War  is  a  virtue — weakness  a  sin; 
There  's  lurking  and  loping  around  us  to-night ; 

Load  again,  Rifleman,  keep  your  hand  in!" 


EPES  SARGENT     1813-1880 


A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave, 

A  home  on  the  rolling  deep, 
Where  the  scattered  waters  rave, 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep: 
Like  an  eagle  caged,  I  pine 

On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore: 
Oh !  give  me  the  flashing  brine, 

The  spray  and  the  tempest's  roar  ! 

Once  more  on  the  deck  I  stand 

Of  my  own  swift-gliding  craft: 
Set  sail !  farewell  to  the  land ! 

The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 
We  shoot  through  the  sparkling  foam 

Like  an  ocean  bird  set  free; — 
Like  the  ocean  bird,  our  home 

We'll  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view, 

The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown ; 
But  with  a  stout  vessel  and  crew, 

We'll  say,  Let  the  storm  come  down ! 
And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be, 

While  the  winds  and  the  waters  rave, 
A  home  on  the  rolling  sea ! 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave ! 


[239 


JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE     1816-1887 


Early  Rising 

"God  bless  the  man  who  first  invented  sleep!" 
So  Sancho  Panza  said,  and  so  say  I: 

And  bless  him,  also,  that  he  did  n't  keep 
His  great  discovery  to  himself;  nor  try 

To  make  it — as  the  lucky  fellow  might — 

A  close  monopoly  by  patent-right! 

Yes ;  bless  the  man  who  first  invented  sleep 
(I  really  can't  avoid  the  iteration), 

But  blast  the  man,  with  curses  loud  and  deep, 
Whate'er  the  rascal's  name,  or  age,  or  station, 

Who  first  invented,  and  went  round  advising, 

That  artificial  cut-off,  Early  Rising! 

"Rise  with  the  lark,  and  with  the  lark  to  bed," 
Observes  some  solemn,  sentimental  owl; 

Maxims  like  these  are  very  cheaply  said ; 
But,  ere  you  make  yourself  a  fool  or  fowl, 

Pray  just  inquire  about  his  rise  and  fall, 

And  whether  larks  have  any  beds  at  all ! 

The  time  for  honest  folks  to  be  a-bed 
Is  in  the  morning,  if  I  reason  right; 

And  he  who  cannot  keep  his  precious  head 
Upon  his  pillow  till  it  's  fairly  light, 

And  so  enjoy  his  forty  morning  winks, 

Is  up  to  knavery ;  or  else — he  drinks  ! 


JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE     1816-1887 


Thomson,,  who  sung  about  the  "Seasons/'  said 
It  was  a  glorious  thing  to  rise  in  season ; 

But  then  he  said  it — lying — in  his  bed, 
At  ten  o'clock  A.M., — the  very  reason 

He  wrote  so  charmingly.     The  simple  fact  is, 

His  preaching  was  n't  sanctioned  by  his  practice. 

'T  is,  doubtless,  well  to  be  sometimes  awake, — 
Awake  to  duty,  and  awake  to  truth, — 

But  when,  alas !  a  nice  review  we  take 

Of  our  best  deeds  and  days,  we  find,  in  sooth, 

The  hours  that  leave  the  slightest  cause  to  weep 

Are  those  we  passed  in  childhood  or  asleep ! 

'T  is  beautiful  to  leave  the  world  awhile 
For  the  soft  visions  of  the  gentle  night; 

And  free,  at  last,  from  mortal  care  or  guile, 
To  live  as  only  in  the  angels'  sight, 

In  sleep's  sweet  realm  so  cosily  shut  in, 

Where,  at  the  worst,  we  only  dream  of  sin ! 

So  let  us  sleep,  and  give  the  Maker  praise. 

I  like  the  lad  who,  when  his  father  thought 
To  clip  his  morning  nap  by  hackneyed  phrase 

Of  vagrant  worm  by  early  songster  caught, 
Cried,  "Served  him  right ! — it 's  not  at  all  surprising; 
The  worm  was  punished,  sir,  for  early  rising !" 


[241] 


JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE     1816-1887 


Polyphemus  and  Ulysses 

A  very  remarkable  history  this  is 

Of  one  POLYPHEMUS  and  CAPTAIN  ULYSSES: 

The  latter  a  hero  accomplished  and  bold,, 

The  former  a  knave,  and  a  fright  to  behold, — 

A  horrid  big  giant  who  lived  in  a  den, 

And  dined  every  day  on  a  couple  of  men, 

Ate  a  woman  for  breakfast,  and  (dreadful  to  see!) 

Had  a  nice  little  baby  served  up  with  his  tea ! 

Indeed,  if  there's  truth  in  the  sprightly  narration 

Of  HOMER,  a  poet  of  some  reputation, 

Or  VIRGIL,  a  writer  but  little  inferior, 

And  in  some  things,  perhaps,  the  other's  superior, — 

POLYPHEMUS  was  truly  a  terrible  creature, 

In  manners  and  morals,,  in  form  and  in  feature ; 

For  law  and  religion  he  cared  not  a  copper, 

And,  in  short,  led  a  life  that  was  very  improper: — 

What  made  him  a  very  remarkable  guy, 

Like  the  late  MR.  THOMPSON,  he  'd  only  one  eye; 

But  that  was  a  whopper, — a  terrible  one, — 

"As  large"  (VIRGIL  says)  "as  the  disk  of  the  sun !" 

A  brilliant,  but  rather  extravagant  figure, 

Which  means,  I  suppose,  that  his  eye  was  much  bigger 

Than  yours, — or  even  the  orb  of  your  sly 

Old  bachelor-friend  "who  's  a  wife  in  his  eye." 

ULYSSES,  the  hero  I  mentioned  before, 

Was  shipwrecked,  one  day,  on  the  pestilent  shore 

Where  the  CYCLOPS  resided,  along  with  their  chief, 

[242] 


JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE     1816-1887 


POLYPHEMUS,  the  terrible  man-eating  thief, 
Whose  manners  they  copied,  and  laws  they  obeyed, 
While  driving  their  horrible  cannibal  trade. 

With  many  expressions  of  civil  regret 
That  ULYSSES  had  got  so  unpleasantly  wet, 
With  many  expressions  of  pleasure  profound 
That  all  had  escaped  being  thoroughly  drowned, 
The  rascal  declared  he  was  "fond  of  the  brave," 
And  invited  the  strangers  all  home  to  his  cave. 

Here  the  cannibal  king,  with  as  little  remorse 

As  an  omnibus  feels  for  the  death  of  a  horse, 

Seized,  crushed,  and  devoured  a  brace  of  the  Greeks, 

As  a  Welshman  would  swallow  a  couple  of  leeks, 

Or  a  Frenchman,  supplied  with  his  usual  prog, 

Would  punish  the  hams  of  a  favorite  frog. 

Dashed  and  smashed  against  the  stones, 

He  broke  their  bodies  and  cracked  their  bones, 

Minding  no  more  their  moans  and  groans, 

Than  the  grinder  heeds  his  organ's  tones ! 

With  purple  gore  the  pavement  swims, 

While  the  giant  crushes  their  crackling  limbs, 

And  poor  ULYSSES  trembles  with  fright 

At  the  horrid  sound,  and  the  horrid  sight, — 

Trembles  lest  the  monster  grim 

Should  make  his  "nuts  and  raisins"  of  him ! 

And,  really,  since 

The  man  was  a  Prince, 
It 's  not  very  odd  that  his  Highness  should  wince, 


JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE     1816-1887 


(Especially  after  such  very  strong  hints,) 
At  the  cannibal's  manner,,  as  rather  more  free 
Than  his  Highness  at  court  was  accustomed  to  see! 

But  the  crafty  Greek,,  to  the  tyrant's  hurt, 
(Though  he  didn't  deserve  so  fine  a  dessert), 
Took  a  dozen  of  wine  from  his  leather  trunk, 
And  plied  the  giant  until  he  was  drunk ! — 
Drunker  than  any  one  you  or  /  know, 
Who  buys  his  "Rhenish"  with  ready  rhino, — 
Exceedingly  drunk, — sepultus   vino! 

Gazing  a  moment  upon  the  sleeper, 
ULYSSES  cried,  "Let 's  spoil  his  peeper ! — 
'T  will  put  him,  boys,  in  a  pretty  trim, 
If  we  can  manage  to  douse  his  glim!" 
So,  taking  a  spar  that  was  lying  in  sight, 
They  poked  it  into  his  "forward  light," 
And  gouged  away  with  furious  spite, 
Ramming  and  jamming  with  all  their  might! 

In  vain  the  giant  began  to  roar, 

And  even  swore 

That  he  never  before 

Had  met,  in  his  life,  such  a  terrible  bore: 
They  only  plied  the  auger  the  more 
And  mocked  his  grief  with  a  bantering  cry, 
"Don't  talk  of  pain, — it  's  all  in  your  eye!" 
Until,  alas  for  the  wretched  CYCLOPS  ! 
He  gives  a  groan,  and  out  his  eye  pops ! 


JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE     1816-1887 


Leaving  the  knave,  one  need  n't  be  told, 
As  blind  as  a  puppy  of  three  days  old. 

The  rest  of  the  tale  I  can't  tell  now, — 
Except  that  ULYSSES  got  out  of  the  row, 
With  the  rest  of  his  crew — it 's  no  matter  how ; 
While  old  POLYPHEMUS,  until  he  was  dead, — 
Which  was  n't  till  many  years  after,  't  is  said, — 
Had  a  grief  in  his  heart  and  a  hole  in  his  head ! 

MORAL 

Don't  use  strong  drink, — pray  let  me  advise, — 
It 's  bad  for  the  stomach,  and  ruins  the  eyes ; 
Don't  impose  upon  sailors  with  land-lubber  tricks, 
Or  you  '11  catch  it  some  day  like  a  thousand  of  bricks ! 


Orpheus  and  Eurydice 

Sir  Orpheus,  whom  the  poets  have  sung 
In  every  metre  and  every  tongue, 
Was,  you  may  remember,  a  famous  musician,- 
At  least  for  a  youth  in  his  pagan  condition, — 
For  historians  tell  he  played  on  his  shell 
From  morning  till  night,  so  remarkably  well 
That  his  music  created  a  regular  spell 
On  trees  and  stones  in  forest  and  dell ! 
What  sort  of  an  instrument  his  could  be 
Is  really  more  than  is  known  to  me, — 


JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE     1816-1887 


For  none  of  the  books  have  told,  d'  ye  see ! 
It  's  very  certain  those  heathen  "swells" 
Knew  nothing  at  all  of  oyster-shells,, 
And  it  's  clear  Sir  Orpheus  never  could  own  a 
Shell  like  those  they  make  in  Cremona ; 
But  whatever  it  was,  to  "move  the  stones" 
It  must  have  shelled  out  some  powerful  tones, 
And  entitled  the  player  to  rank  in  my  rhyme 
As  the  very  Vieuxtemps  of  the  very  old  time ! 

But  alas  for  the  joys  of  this  mutable  life! 
Sir  Orpheus  lost  his  beautiful  wife — 
Eurydice,  who  vanished  one  day 
From  Earth,  in  a  very  unpleasant  way ! 
It  chanced,  as  near  as  I  can  determine, 
Through  one  of  those  vertebrated  vermin 
That  lie  in  the  grass  so  prettily  curled, 
Waiting  to  "snake"  you  out  of  the  world! 
And  the  poets  tell  she  went  to — well — 
A  place  where  Greeks  and  Romans  dwell 
After  they  burst  their  mortal  shell ; 
A  region  that  in  deepest  shade  is, 
And  known  by  the  classical  name  of  Hades, — 
A  different  place  from  the  terrible  furnace 
Of  Tartarus^  down  below  Avernus. 

Now,  having  a  heart  uncommonly  stout, 
Sir  Orpheus  did  n't  go  whining  about, 
Nor  marry  another,  as  you  would,  no  doubt, 
But  made  up  his  mind  to  fiddle  her  out ! 


JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE     1816-1887 


But  near  the  gate  he  had  to  wait; 

For  there  in  state  old  Cerberus  sate, 

A  three-headed  dog,  as  cruel  as  Fate, 

Guarding  the  entrance  early  and  late ; 

A  beast  so  sagacious,  and  very  voracious, 

So  uncommonly  sharp  and  extremely  rapacious, 

That  it  really  may  be  doubted  whether 

He  'd  have  his  match,  should  a  common  tether 

Unite  three  aldermen's  heads  together ! 

But  Orpheus,  not  in  the  least  afraid, 
Tuned  up  his  shell,  and  quickly  essayed 
What  could  be  done  with  a  serenade, 
In  short,  so  charming  an  air  he  played, 
He  quite  succeeded  in  overreaching 
The  cunning  cur,  by  musical  teaching, 
And  put  him  to  sleep  as  fast  as  preaching ! 

And  now  our  musical  champion,  Orpheus, 
Having  given  the  janitor  over  to  Morpheus, 
Went  groping  around  among  the  ladies 
Who  throng  the  dismal  halls  of  Hades, 

Calling  aloud 

To  the  shady  crowd, 
In  a  voice  as  shrill  as  a  martial  fife, 
"O,  tell  me  where  in  hell  is  my  wife !" 
(A  natural  question,  't  is  very  plain, 
Although  it  may  sound  a  little  profane.) 

"Eurydice !     Eu-ryd-i-ce  I" 
He  cried  as  loud  as  loud  could  be, 

[*47] 


JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE     1816-1887 

(A  singular  sound,  and  funny  withal,, 
In  a  place  where  nobody  rides  at  all!) 

"Eurydice  ! — Eurydice  ! 
O,  come,,  my  dear,  along  with  me !" 
And  then  he  played  so  remarkably  fine, 
That  it  really  might  be  called  divine, — 

For  who  can  show, 

On  earth  or  below, 
Such  wonderful  feats  in  the  musical  line? 

E'en  Tantalus  ceased  from  trying  to  sip 
The  cup  that  flies  from  his  arid  lip; 
Ixion,  too,  the  magic  could  feel, 
And,  for  a  moment,  blocked  his  wheel; 

Poor  Sisyphus,  doomed  to  tumble  and  toss 
The  notable  stone  that  gathers  no  moss, 
Let  go  his  burden,  and  turned  to  hear 
The  charming  sounds  that  ravished  his  ear; 
And  even  the  Furies — those  terrible  shrews 
Whom  no  one  before  could  ever  amuse, 
Those  strong-bodied  ladies  with  strong-minded  views 
Whom  even  the  Devil  would  doubtless  refuse, 
Were  his  Majesty  only  permitted  to  choose, 
Each  felt  for  a  moment  her  nature  desert  her, 
And  wept  like  a  girl  o'er  the  "Sorrows  of  Werther." 

And  still  Sir  Orpheus  chanted  his  song, 
Sweet  and  clear  and  strong  and  long, 

"Eurydice  ! — Eurydice  !" 
He  cried  as  loud  as  loud  could  be ; 

[248] 


JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE     1816-1887 


And  Echo,  taking  up  the  word, 
Kept  it  up  till  the  lady  heard, 
And  came  with  joy  to  meet  her  lord. 
And  he  led  her  along  the  infernal  route, 
Until  he  had  got  her  almost  out, 
When,  suddenly  turning  his  head  about, 
(To  take  a  peep  at  his  wife,  no  doubt,) 

He  gave  a  groan, 

For  the  lady  was  gone, 
And  had  left  him  standing  there  all  alone ! 
For  by  an  oath  the  gods  had  bound 
Sir  Orpheus  not  to  look  around 
Till  he  was  clear  of  the  sacred  ground, 
If  he  'd  have  Eurydice  safe  and  sound; 
For  the  moment  he  did  an  act  so  rash 
His  wife  would  vanish  as  quick  as  a  flash ! 

MORAL 

Young  women !  beware,  for  goodness'  sake, 
Of  every  sort  of  "sarpent  snake"; 
Remember  the  rogue  is  apt  to  deceive, 
And  played  the  deuce  with  grandmother  Eve! 

Young  men !  it  's  a  critical  thing  to  go 
Exactly  right  with  a  lady  in  tow; 
But  when  you  are  in  the  proper  track, 
Just  go  ahead,  and  never  look  back ! 


JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE     1816-1887 


Bereavement 

Nay,  weep  not,  dearest,  though  the  child  be  dead ; 

He  lives  again  in  Heaven's  unclouded  life, 
With  other  angels  that  have  early  fled 

From  these  dark  scenes  of  sorrow,  sin,  and  strife. 
Nay,  weep  not,  dearest,  though  thy  yearning  love 

Would  fondly  keep  for  earth  its  fairest  flowers, 
And  e'en  deny  to  brighter  realms  above 

The  few  that  deck  this  dreary  world  of  ours : 
Though  much  it  seems  a  wonder  and  a  woe 

That  one  so  loved  should  be  so  early  lost, 
And  hallowed  tears  may  un forbidden  flow 

To  mourn  the  blossom  that  we  cherished  most, 
Yet  all  is  well;  God's  good  design  I  see, 
That  where  our  treasure  is,  our  hearts  may  be ! 


[250] 


PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE     1816-1850 


Florence  Vane 

I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane; 
My  life's  bright  dream,  and  early, 

Hath  come  again ; 
I  renew,  in  my  fond  vision, 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hope,  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane. 

The  ruin  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old, 
Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told, — 
That  spot — the  hues   Elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain — 
I  treasure  in  my  vision, 

Florence  Vane. 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme; 
Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main. 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane ! 


251  ] 


PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE     1816-1850 


But,  fairest,  coldest  wonder ! 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under — 

Alas  the  day  ! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain — 
To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane. 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 
The  pansies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep; 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane! 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 


Cleopatra 

Here,  Charmian,  take  my  bracelets, 

They  bar  with  a  purple  stain 
My  arms ;  turn  over  my  pillows — 

They  are  hot  where  I  have  lain: 
Open  the  lattice  wider, 

A  gauze  on  my  bosom  throw, 
And  let  me  inhale  the  odors 

That  over  the  garden  blow. 

I  dreamed  I  was  with  my  Antony, 

And  in  his  arms  I  lay; 
Ah,  me !  the  vision  has  vanished— 

The  music  has  died  away. 
The  flame  and  the  perfume  have  perished — 

As  this  spiced  aromatic  pastille 
That  wound  the  blue  smoke  of  its  odor 

Is  now  but  an  ashy  hill. 

Scatter  upon  me  rose-leaves, 

They  cool  me  after  my  sleep, 
And  with  sandal  odors  fan  me 

Till  into  my  veins  they  creep; 
Reach  down  the  lute,  and  play  me 

A  melancholy  tune, 
To  rhyme  with  the  dream  that  has  vanished, 

And  the  slumbering  afternoon. 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 


There,  drowsing  in  golden  sunlight, 

Loiters  the  slow,  smooth  Nile, 
Through  slender  papyri,  that  cover 

The  wary  crocodile. 
The  lotus  lolls  on  the  water, 

And  opens  its  heart  of  gold, 
And  over  its  broad  leaf-pavement 

Never  a  ripple  is  rolled. 
The  twilight  breeze  is  too  lazy 

Those  feathery  palms  to  wave, 
And  yon  little  cloud  is  as  motionless 

As  a  stone  above  a  grave. 

Ah,  me!  this  lifeless  nature 

Oppresses  my  heart  and  brain ! 
Oh !  for  a  storm  and  thunder — 

For  lightning  and  wild,  fierce  rain! 
Fling  down  that  lute — I  hate  it! 

Take  rather  his  buckler  and  sword, 
And  crash  them  and  clash  them  together 

Till  this  sleeping  world  is  stirred. 

Hark!  to  my  Indian  beauty — 

My  cockatoo,  creamy  white, 
With  roses  under  his  feathers — 

That  flashes  across  the  light. 
Look !  listen !  as  backward  and  forward 

To  his  hoop  of  gold  he  clings, 
How  he  trembles,  with  crest  uplifted, 

And  shrieks  as  he  madly  swings  ! 

[254] 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 

Oh,  cockatoo,,  shriek  for  Antony ! 

Cry,  "Come,  my  love,  come  home !" 
Shriek,  "Antony  !  Antony  !  Antony  !" 

Till  he  hears  you  even  in  Rome. 

There — leave  me,  and  take  from  my  chamber 

That  stupid  little  gazelle, 
With  its  bright  black  eyes  so  meaningless, 

And  its  silly  tinkling  bell ! 
Take  him, — my  nerves  he  vexes, — 

The  thing  without  blood  or  brain, — 
Or,  by  the  body  of  Isis, 

I  '11  snap  his  thin  neck  in  twain ! 

Leave  me  to  gaze  at  the  landscape 

Mistily  stretching  away, 
Where  the  afternoon's  opaline  tremors 

O'er  the  mountains  quivering  play; 
Till  the  fiercer  splendor  of  sunset 

Pours  from  the  west  its  fire, 
And  melted,  as  in  a  crucible, 

Their  earthy  forms  expire ; 
And  the  bald,  blear  skull  of  the  desert 

With  glowing  mountains  is  crowned, 
That  burning  like  molten  jewels 

Circle  its  temples  round. 

I  will  lie  and  dream  of  the  past  time, 

^Eons  of  thought  away, 
And  through  the  jungle  of  memory 

Loosen  my  fancy  to  play; 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 

When,,  a  smooth  and  velvety  tiger, 

Ribbed  with  yellow  and  black,, 
Supple  and  cushion-footed 

I  wandered,  where  never  the  track 
Of  a  human  creature  had  rustled 

The  silence  of  mighty  woods, 
And,  fierce  in  a  tyrannous  freedom, 
I  knew  but  the  law  of  my  moods. 
The  elephant,  trumpeting,  started, 
When  he  heard  my  footstep  near, 
And  the  spotted  giraffes  fled  wildly 

In  a  yellow  cloud  of  fear. 
I  sucked  in  the  noontide  splendor, 

Quivering  along  the  glade, 
Or  yawning,  panting,  and  dreaming, 

Basked  in  the  tamarisk  shade, 
Till  I  heard  my  wild  mate  roaring, 
As  the  shadows  of  night  came  on, 
To  brood  in  the  trees'  thick  branches 
And  the  shadow  of  sleep  was  gone; 
Then  I  roused,  and  roared  in  answer, 

And  unsheathed  from  my  cushioned  feet 
My  curving  claws,  and  stretched  me, 

And  wandered  my  mate  to  greet. 
We  toyed  in  the  amber  moonlight, 

Upon  the  warm,  flat  sand, 
And  struck  at  each  other  our  massive  arms- 
How  powerful  he  was  and  grand! 
His  yellow  eyes  flashed  fiercely 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 

As  he  crouched  and  gazed  at  me, 
And  his  quivering  tail,  like  a  serpent, 

Twitched  curving  nervously. 
Then  like  a  storm  he  seized  me, 

With  a  wild,  triumphant  cry, 
And  we  met,  as  two  clouds  in  heaven 

When  the  thunders  before  them  fly. 
We  grappled  and  struggled  together, 

For  his  love  like  his  rage  was  rude; 
And  his  teeth  in  the  swelling  folds  of  my  neck 

At  times,  in  our  play,  drew  blood. 

Often  another  suitor — 

For  I  was  flexile  and  fair — 
Fought  for  me  in  the  moonlight, 

While  I  lay  couching  there, 
Till  his  blood  was  drained  by  the  desert ; 

And,  ruffled  with  triumph  and  power, 
He  licked  me  and  lay  beside  me 

To  breathe  him  a  vast  half-hour. 
Then  down  to  the  fountain  we  loitered, 

Where  the  antelopes  came  to  drink; 
Like  a  bolt  we  sprang  upon  them, 

Ere  they  had  time  to  shrink, 
We  drank  their  blood  and  crushed  them, 

And  tore  them  limb  from  limb, 
And  the  hungriest  lion  doubted 

Ere  he  disputed  with  him. 
That  was  a  life  to  live  for ! 

Not  this  weak  human  life, 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 


With  its  frivolous  bloodless  passions, 
Its  poor  and  petty  strife! 

Come  to  my  arms,  my  hero, 

The  shadows  of  twilight  grow, 
And  the  tiger's  ancient  fierceness 

In  my  veins  begins  to  flow. 
Come  not  cringing  to  sue  me ! 

Take  me  with  triumph  and  power, 
As  a  warrior  storms  a  fortress ! 

I  will  not  shrink  or  cower. 
Come,  as  you  came  in  the  desert, 

Ere  we  were  women  and  men, 
When  the  tiger  passions  were  in  us, 

And  love  as  you  loved  me  then ! 


Praxiteles  and  Phryne 

A  thousand  silent  years  ago, 

The  twilight  faint  and  pale 
Was  drawing  o'er  the  sunset  glow 

Its  soft  and  shadowy  veil; 

When  from  his  work  the  Sculptor  stayed 
His  hand,  and  turned  to  one 

Who  stood  beside  him,  half  in  shade, 
Said,  with  a  sigh,  "  'T  is  done. 


[258} 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 


"Thus  much  is  saved  from  chance  and  change, 

That  waits  for  me  and  thee; 
Thus  much — how  little  ! — from  the  range 

Of  Death  and  Destiny. 

"Phryne,  thy  human  lips  shall  pale, 

Thy  rounded  limbs  decay, — 
Nor  love  nor  prayers  can  aught  avail 

To  bid  thy  beauty  stay; 

"But  there  thy  smile  for  centuries 

On  marble  lips  shall  live, — 
For  Art  can  grant  what  Love  denies, 

And  fix  the  fugitive. 

"Sad  thought !  nor  age  nor  death  shall  fade 

The  youth  of  this  cold  bust ; 
When  this  quick  brain  and  hand  that  made, 

And  thou  and  I  art  dust ! 

"When  all  our  hopes  and  fears  are  dead, 

And  both  our  hearts  are  cold, 
And  love  is  like  a  tune  that 's  played, 

And  life  a  tale  that 's  told, 

"This  senseless  stone,  so  coldly  fair, 

That  love  nor  life  can  warm, 
The  same  enchanting  look  shall  wear, 

The  same  enchanting  form. 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY    1819-1895 


"Its  peace  no  sorrow  shall  destroy; 

Its  beauty  age  shall  spare 
The  bitterness  of  vanished  joy, 

The  wearing  waste  of  care. 

"And  there  upon  that  silent  face 

Shall  unborn  ages  see 
Perennial  youth,  perennial  grace, 

And  sealed  serenity. 

"And  strangers,  when  we  sleep  in  peace, 
Shall  say,  not  quite  unmoved, 

'So  smiled  upon  Praxiteles 
The  Phryne  whom  he  loved !'  ' 


L'Abbate 

Were  it  not  for  that  singular  smell 

That  seems  to  the  genus  priest  to  belong, 
Where  snuff  and  incense  are  mingled  well 

With  a  natural  odor  quite  as  strong: 
Were  it  not  for  those  little  ways 

Of  clasped  and  deprecating  hands; 
And  raising  and  lowering  his  eyes  always 

As  if  he  only  waited  commands — 


[260] 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 


Little  there  is  in  him  of  the  priest, 

With  only  the  slightest  touch  of  cant, 
With  a  simple,  guileless  heart  in  his  breast, 

And  a  mind  as  honest  as  ignorant. 
Half  a  child  and  half  a  man, 

Ripe  in  the  Fathers  and  green  in  thought, 
In  his  little  circle  of  half  a  span 

He  thinks  that  he  thinks  what  he  was  taught. 

His  duty  he  does  to  the  scruple's  weight; 

Recites  his  prayers,  and  mumbles  his  mass, 
And  without  his  litanies,  early  and  late, 

Never  permits  a  day  to  pass. 
Look  at  him  there  in  the  garden-plots 

Repeating  his  office,  as  to  and  fro 
He  paces  around  the  orange-pots, 

Looking  about  while  his  quick  lips  go. 

His  simple  pleasure  in  simple  things, 

His  willing  spirit  that  never  tires, 
His  trivial  jokes  and  wonderings, 

His  peaceful  temper  that  never  fires, 
His  joy  over  trifles  of  every  day. 

The  feeble  poems  he  loves  to  quote, — 
Are  just  like  a  child,  with  his  heart  in  his  play, 

While  his  duty  and  lessons  are  drill  and  rote. 


261  ] 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 


What  life  means  he  does  not  think; 

Reason  and  thought  he  has  been  told 
Only  lead  to  a  perilous  brink, 

Away  from  Christ  and  the  Church's  fold. 
Therefore  he  humbly  and  blindly  obeys ; 

Does  what  he  's  ordered  and  reasons  not; 
Performs  his  prayers,  and  thinks  he  prays, 

And  asks  not  how,  or  why,  or  what. 

Happy  in  this,  why  stir  his  mind, 

Stagnant  in  thought  although  it  be? 
Leave  him  alone — he  is  gentle  and  kind, 

And  blest  with  a  child's  simplicity. 
Thinking  would  only  give  him  unrest, 

Struggle,  and  toil,  and  inward  strain; 
His  heart  is  right  in  his  thoughtless  breast, 

Why  should  one  wish  to  torment  his  brain  ? 

Yet  out  of  pastime  one  evil  day 

I  unfolded  to  him  Pythagoras'  plan — 
How  step  by  step  the  soul  made  its  way 

From  sea-anemone  up  to  man, — 
How  onward  to  higher  grades  it  went, 

If  its  human  life  had  been  fair  and  pure; 
Or  if  not,  to  the  lower  scale  was  sent, 

Again  to  ascend  to  man,  and  endure. 


[262] 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 


And  so  the  soul  had  gleams  of  the  past, 

And  felt  in  itself  dim  sympathies 
With  nature,  that  ended  in  us  at  last, 

And  each  of  whose  forms  within  us  lies. 
He  smiled  at  first,  and  then  by  degrees 

Grew  silent  and  sad,  and  confessed  't  was  true, 
But  with  spirit  so  pained  and  ill  at  ease, 

That  my  foolish  wrork  I  strove  to  undo. 

This  thinking  's  the  spawn  of  Satan,  I  said, 

That  tempts  us  into  the  sea  of  doubt ; 
And  Satan  has  endless  snares  to  spread, 

If  once  with  our  reason  we  venture  out. 
Here  you  are  in  your  Church  like  a  port, 

Anchored  secure,  where  never  a  gale 
Can  break  your  moorings., — nor  even  in  sport 

Should  you  weigh  your  anchor  or  spread  your  sail. 

So  I  got  him  back  to  his  anchor  again, 

And  there  in  the  stagnant  harbor  he  lies ; 
And  he  looks  upon  me  with  a  sense  of  pain 

As  a  wild  freebooter ;  for  to  his  eyes 
Free  thinking,  free  sailing  seems  to  be, 

A  sort  of  a  godless,  dangerous  thing, 
Like  a  pirate's  life  on  a  stormy  sea — 

And  sure  at  the  last  damnation  to  bring. 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 


Black  Eyes 

Those  black  eyes  I  once  so  praised 

Now  are  hard  and  sharp  and  cold; 
Where  's  the  love  that  through  them  blazed  ? 

Where  's  the  tenderness  of  old  ? 
All  is  gone — how  utterly — 

From  its  stem  the  flower  has  dropped. 
Ah !  how  ugly  Life  can  be 

After  Love  from  it  is  lopped  ! 

Do  we  hate  each  other  now, 

While  we  call  each  other  dear? 
On  that  faultless  mouth  and  brow 

To  the  world  does  change  appear? 
No!  your  smile  is  just  as  sweet, 

Just  as  fair  your  outward  grace ; 
But  I  look  in  vain  to  greet 

The  dear  ghost  behind  the  face. 

That  is  gone !  I  look  on  you 

As  a  corpse  from  which  has  fled 
All  that  once  I  loved  and  knew, 

All  that  once  I  thought  to  wed. 
'T  is  not  your  fault,  't  is  not  mine ; 

Yet  I  still  recall  a  dream 
Of  a  joy  almost  divine — 

'T  was  an  image  in  a  stream. 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 


Nothing  can  be  sour  and  sharp 

As  a  love  that  has  decayed — 
On  the  loose  strings  of  the  harp 

Only  discord  can  be  made. 
Cold  this  common  friendship  seems 

After  love's  auroral  glow; 
On  the  broken  stem  of  dreams 

Only  disappointments  grow. 

Do  I  hate  you?     No!     Not  hate? 

Hate  's  a  word  far  too  intense, 
Too  alive,  to  speak  a  state 

Of  supreme  indifference. 
Once,  behind  your  eyes  I  thought 

Worlds  of  love  and  life  to  see ; 
Now  I  see  behind  them  nought 

But  a  soulless  vacancy. 

Out  and  out  I  know  you  now; 

There  Js  no  issue  of  your  heart 
Where  my  soul  with  you  may  go 

To  a  beauty  all  apart, 
Where  the  world  can  never  come. 

'T  is  a  little  narrow  place — 
Friendship  there  might  find  a  home; 

Love  would  die — for  want  of  space. 


[265 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1895 


So  we  live !     The  world  still  says, 

"What  expression  in  her  eyes  ! 
What  sweet  manners — graceful  ways  !" 

How  it  would  the  world  surprise 
If  I  said,  "This  woman's  soul 

Made  for  love  you  think,  but  try; 
Plunge  therein — how  clear  and  shoal! — - 

You  might  drown  there — so  can't  I  ?" 


In  the  Rain 

I  stand  in  the  cold  gray  weather, 

In  the  white  and  silvery  rain; 
The  great  trees  huddle  together, 

And  sway  with  the  windy  strain. 
I  dream  of  the  purple  glory 

Of  the  roseate  mountain-height 
And  the  sweet-to-remembcr  story 

Of  a  distant  and  clear  delight. 

The  rain  keeps  constantly  raining, 

And  the  sky  is  cold  and  gray, 
And  the  wind  in  the  trees  keeps  complaining 

That  summer  has  passed  away ; — 
But  the  gray  and  the  cold  are  haunted 

By  a  beauty  akin  to  pain, — 
By  a  sense  of  a  something  wanted, 

That  never  will  come  again. 

[966] 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY     1819-1995 


Snowdrop 

When,  full  of  warm  and  eager  love, 

I  clasp  you  in  my  fond  embrace, 
You  gently  push  me  back  and  say, 

"Take  care,  my  dear,  you  '11  spoil  my  lace. 

You  kiss  me  just  as  you  would  kiss 

Some  woman  friend  you  chanced  to  see ; 

You  call  me  "dearest."     All  love's  forms 
Are  yours,  not  its  reality. 

Oh,  Annie !  cry,  and  storm,  and  rave ! 

Do  anything  with  passion  in  it ! 
Hate  me  an  hour,  and  then  turn  round 

And  love  me  truly,  just  one  minute. 


[M7] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


What  Mr.  Robinson  Thinks 

Guvener  B.  is  a  sensible  man; 

He  stays  to  his  home  an'  looks  arter  his  folks ; 
He  draws  his  furrer  ez  straight  ez  he  can, 
An'  into  nobody's  tater-patch  pokes; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

My !  aint  it  terrible  ?     Wut  shall  we  du  ? 

We  can't  never  choose  him  o'  course, — thet  's  flat ; 
Guess  we  shall  hev  to  come  round,  (don't  you?) 
An'  go  in  fer  thunder  an'  guns,  an'  all  that ; 
Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

Gineral  C.  is  a  dreffle  smart  man: 

He's  ben  on  all  sides  thet  give  places  or  pelf ; 
But  consistency  still  wuz  a  part  of  his  plan, — 

He  's  ben  true  to  one  party, — an'  thet  is  himself  ;- 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

Gineral  C.  he  goes  in  fer  the  war; 

He  don't  vally  princerple  more  'n  an  old  cud; 
Wut  did  God  make  us  raytional  creeturs  fer, 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

But  glory  an'  gunpowder,  plunder  an'  blood? 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

We  were  gittin'  on  nicely  up  here  to  our  village, 

With  good  old  idees  o'  wut  's  right  an'  wut  ami, 
We  kind  o'  thought  Christ  went  agin  war  an'  pillage, 
An'  thet  eppyletts  worn't  the  best  mark  of  a  saint ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  kind  o'  thing  's  an  exploded  idee. 

The  side  of  our  country  must  oilers  be  took, 

An'  Presidunt  Polk,  you  know,  he  is  our  country. 
An'  the  angel  thet  writes  all  our  sins  in  a  book 
Puts  the  debit  to  him,  an'  to  us  the  per  contry  ; 
An'  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  is  his  view  o'  the  thing  to  a  T. 

Parson  Wilbur  he  calls  all  these  argimunts  lies ; 

Sez  they  're  nothin'  on  airth  but  jest  -fee,  jaw,  fum; 
An'  thet  all  this  big  talk  of  our  destinies 
Is  half  on  it  ign'ance,  an'  t'  other  half  rum ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez  it  aint  no  sech  thing;  an',  of  course,  so  must 
we. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Parson  Wilbur  sez  lie  never  heerd  in  his  life 

Thet  th'   Apostles   rigged  out  in  their  swaller-tail 

coats, 

An'  marched  round  in  front  of  a  drum  an'  a  fife,, 
To  git  some  on  'em  office,,  an'  some  on  'em  votes ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  they  did  n't  know  everythin'  down  in  Judee. 

Wai,  it 's  a  marcy  we  've  gut  folks  to  tell  us 

The  rights  an'  the  wrongs  o'  these  matters,  I  vow, — 
God  sends  country  lawyers,  an'  other  wise  fellers, 
To  start  the  world's  team  wen  it  gits  in  a  slough; 
Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  the  world  '11  go  right,  ef  he  hollers  out  Gee ! 


The  Courtin' 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 
Fur  'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 

Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 
All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 
An*  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder, 

An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 
'ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

[970] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 
With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in — 

There  warn't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her, 

An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  f'om  Concord  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 

Seemed  warm  f'om  floor  to  ceilin', 

An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'T  was  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur, 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  1, 

Clear  grit  an'  human  natur'; 
None  could  n't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 

Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter. 


[271] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


He  'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
He  'd  squired  'em^  danced  'em,  druv  'em, 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells — 
All  is,  he  could  n't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 

All  crinkly  like  curled  maple, 
The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 

Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir; 
My!  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring, 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she  'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 

When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 
Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 

O'  blue  eyes  sot  upun  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some! 

She  seemed  to  've  gut  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he  'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper, — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelin's  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


He  kin'  o'  1'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle, 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder, 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose?" 
"Wai  ....  no  ....  I  come  dasignin'  "- 

"To  see  my  Ma?     She  's  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so, 
Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin'; 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 
Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 
Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'  other, 

An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 
He  could  n't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "I  'd  better  call  agin" ; 

Says  she,  "Think  likely,  Mister": 
Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 

An'  ....  Wai,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressing 
Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 

An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 

In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 


Song 

O,  moonlight  deep  and  tender, 

A  year  and  more  agone, 
Your  mist  of  golden  splendor 

Round  my  betrothal  shone ! 

O,  elm-leaves  dark  and  dewy, 

The  very  same  ye  seem, 
The  low  wind  trembles  through  ye, 

Ye  murmur  in  my  dream! 

[274] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

O,  river.,  dim  with  distance, 

Flow  thus  forever  by, 
A  part  of  my  existence 

Within  your  heart  doth  lie! 

O,  stars,  ye  saw  our  meeting, 

Two  beings  and  one  soul, 
Two  hearts  so  madly  beating 

To  mingle  and  be  whole ! 

O,  happy  night,  deliver 

Her  kisses  back  to  me, 
Or  keep  them  all,  and  give  her 

A  blissful  dream  of  me ! 


The  Present  Crisis 

When  a  deed  is  done   for   Freedom,  through  the  broad 

earth's  aching  breast 
Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on  from  east 

to  west, 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  the  soul  within 

him  climb 

To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the  energy  sublime 
Of  a  century  bursts  full-blossomed  on  the  thorny  stem 

of  Time. 


275 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


Through  the  walls  of  hut  and  palace  shoots  the  instan 
taneous  throe, 

When  the  travail  of  the  Ages  wrings  earth's  systems  to 
and  fro; 

At  the  birth  of  each  new  Era,  with  a  recognizing  start, 

Nation  wildly  looks  at  nation,  standing  with  mute  lips 
apart, 

And  glad  Truth's  yet  mightier  man-child  leaps  beneath 
the  Future's  heart. 

So  the  Evil's  triumph  sendeth,  with  a  terror  and  a  chill, 
Under  continent  to  continent,  the  sense  of  coming  ill, 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  his  sympathies 

with  God 
In  hot  tear-drops  ebbing  earthward,  to  be  drunk  up  by 

the  sod, 
Till  a  corpse  crawls  round  unburied,  delving  in  the  nobler 

clod. 

For   mankind   are   one   in   spirit,   and   an   instinct   bears 

along, 
Round  the  earth's  electric  circle,  the  swift  flash  of  right 

or  wrong; 
Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,,  yet  Humanity's  vast 

frame 
Through  its  ocean-sundered  fibres  feels  the  gush  of  joy 

or  shame ; — 
In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race  all  the  rest  have  equal 

claim. 


276] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Once  to   every   man   and   nation   comes   the   moment   to 

decide, 
In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good  or 

evil  side; 
Some  great  cause,  God's  new  Messiah,  offering  each  the 

bloom  or  blight, 
Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the  sheep  upon 

the  right, 
And  the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt  that  darkness  and 

that  light. 

Hast  thou  chosen,  O  my  people,  on  whose  party  thou 

shalt  stand, 
Ere   the  Doom   from  its  worn   sandals   shakes   the   dust 

against  our  land? 
Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet  't  is  Truth  alone 

is  strong, 
And,  albeit  she  wander  outcast  now,   I    see  around  her 

throng 
Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  enshield  her  from  all 

wrong. 

Backward  look  across  the  ages  and  the  beacon-moments 

see, 
That,  like   peaks   of   some   sunk   continent,  jut   through 

Oblivion's  sea; 

Not  an  ear  in  court  or  market  for  the  low,  foreboding  cry 
Of  those  Crises,  God's  stern  winnowers,  from  whose  feet 

earth's  chaff  must  fly ; 

[277] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Never  shows  the  choice  momentous  till  the  judgment  hath 
passed  by. 

Careless   seems  the  great  Avenger;   history's  pages  but 

record 
One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  'twixt  old  systems  and 

the  Word; 
Truth   forever   on   the   scaffold.,   Wrong   forever   on   the 

throne, — 
Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and,  behind  the  dim 

unknown, 
Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above 

his  own. 

We  see  dimly  in  the  Present  what  is  small  and  what  is 
great, 

Slow  of  faith  how  weak  an  arm  may  turn  the  iron  helm 
of  fate, 

But  the  soul  is  still  oracular;  amid  the  market's  din, 

List  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from  the  Delphic  cave 
within, — 

"They  enslave  their  children's  children  who  make  com 
promise  with  sin." 

Slavery,    the    earth-born    Cyclops,    fellest    of   the    giant 

brood, 
Sons  of  brutish  Force  and  Darkness,  who  have  drenched 

the  earth  with  blood, 
Famished  in  his  self-made  desert,  blinded  by  our  purer 

dav, 


[278] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Gropes  in  yet  unblasted  regions  for  his  miserable  prey ; — 
Shall  we  guide  his  gory  fingers  where  our  helpless  chil 
dren  play  ? 

Then  to   side   with   Truth  is    noble  when  we   share  her 

wretched  crust, 
Ere  her  cause  bring  fame  and  profit,,  and  't  is  prosperous 

to  be  just; 
Then  it  is  the  brave  man  chooses,  while  the  coward  stands 

aside, 

Doubting  in  his  abject  spirit,  till  his  Lord  is  crucified, 
And  the  multitude  make  virtue  of  the   faith  they  had 

denied. 

Count  me  o'er  earth's   chosen  heroes, — they  were  souls 

that  stood  alone, 
While  the  men  they  agonized  for  hurled  the  contumelious 

stone, 
Stood  serene,  and  down  the  future  saw  the  golden  beam 

incline 
To  the  side  of  perfect  justice,  mastered  by  their  faith 

divine, 
By   one    man's    plain    truth    to    manhood    and    to    God's 

supreme  design. 

By  the  light  of  burning  heretics   Christ's  bleeding  feet 

I  track, 
Toiling  up  new  Calvaries  ever  with  the  cross  that  turns 

not  back, 


279 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

And  these  mounts  of  anguish  number  how  each  generation 
learned 

One  new  word  of  that  grand  Credo  which  in  prophet- 
hearts  hath  burned 

Since  the  first  man  stood  God-conquered  with  his  face 
to  heaven  upturned. 

For  Humanity  sweeps  onward:  where  to-day  the  martyr 

stands, 
On  the   morrow  crouches   Judas  with  the  silver   in   his 

hands ; 
Far  in  front  the  cross  stands  ready  and  the  crackling 

fagots  burn,, 

While  the  hooting  mob  of  yesterday  in  silent  awe  return 
To  glean  up  the  scattered  ashes  into  History's  golden 

urn. 

'T  is  as  easy  to  be  heroes  as  to  sit  the  idle  slaves 

Of  a  legendary  virtue  carved  upon  our  fathers'  graves, 

Worshippers  of  light  ancestral  make  the  present  light  a 

crime; — 
Was  the  Mayflower  launched  by  cowards,  steered  by  men 

behind  their  time? 
Turn   those   tracks    toward   Past   or    Future,   that   made 

Plymouth  Rock  sublime? 

They  were  men  of  present  valor,  stalwart  old  iconoclasts, 
Unconvinced  by  axe  or   gibbet  that  all  virtue  was   the 
Past's ; 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


But  we  make  their  truth  our  falsehood,  thinking  that  hath 

made  us  free, 
Hoarding   it   in   mouldy   parchments,   while    our   tender 

spirits  flee 
The  rude  grasp  of  that  great  Impulse  which  drove  them 

across  the  sea. 

They  have  rights  who  dare  maintain  them ;  we  are  traitors 
to  our  sires, 

Smothering  in  their  holy  ashes  Freedom's  new-lit  altar- 
fires; 

Shall  we  make  their  creed  our  jailer?  Shall  we,  in  our 
haste  to  slay, 

From  the  tombs  of  the  old  prophets  steal  the  funeral 
lamps  away 

To  light  up  the  martyr-fagots  round  the  prophets  of 
to-day  ? 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties;  Time  makes  ancient 
good  uncouth ; 

They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who  would  keep 
abreast  of  Truth; 

Lo,  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires  !  we  ourselves  must 
Pilgrims  be, 

Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through  the 
desperate  winter  sea, 

Nor  attempt  the  Future's  portal  with  the  Past's  blood- 
rusted  key. 


[S81] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


The  Washers  of  the  Shroud 
October,  1861 

Along  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where, 

I  walked  one  night  in  mystery  of  dream; 

A  chill  creeps  curdling  yet  beneath  my  hair, 

To  think  what  chanced  me  by  the  pallid  gleam 

Of  a  moon-wraith  that  waned  through  haunted  air. 

Pale  fireflies  pulsed  within  the  meadow-mist 
Their  halos,  wavering  thistledowns  of  light; 
The  loon,  that  seemed  to  mock  some  goblin  tryst, 
Laughed ;  and  the  echoes,  huddling  in  affright, 
Like  Odin's  hounds,  fled  baying  down  the  night. 

Then  all  was  silent,  till  there  smote  my  ear 

A  movement  in  the  stream  that  checked  my  breath; 

Was  it  the  slow  plash  of  a  wading  deer? 

But  something  said,  "This  water  is  of  Death ! 

The  Sisters  wash  a  shroud, — ill  thing  to  hear !" 

I,  looking  then,,  beheld  the  ancient  Three 

Known  to  the  Greek's  and  to  the  Northman's  creed, 

That  sit  in  shadow  of  the  mystic  Tree, 

Still  crooning,  as  they  weave  their  endless  brede, 

One  song:  "Time  was,  Time  is,  and  Time  shall  be." 


[282] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


No  wrinkled  crones  were  they  as  I  had  deemed, 
But  fair  as  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow, 
To  mourner,  lover,  poet,  ever  seemed; 
Something  too  high  for  joy,  too  deep  for  sorrow, 
Thrilled  in  their  tones,  and  from  their  faces  gleamed. 

"Still  men  and  nations  reap  as  they  have  strawn," 

So  sang  they,  working  at  their  task  the  while ; 

"The  fatal  raiment  must  be  cleansed  ere  dawn: 

For  Austria?     Italy?     the  Sea-Queen's  isle? 

O'er  what  quenched  grandeur  must  our  shroud  be  drawn  ? 

"What  make  we,  murmur'st  thou?  and  what  are  we? 
When  empires  must  be  wound,  we  bring  the  shroud, 
The  time-old  web  of  the  implacable  Three: 
Is  it  too  coarse  for  him,  the  young  and  proud  ? 
Earth's  mightiest  deigned  to  wear  it, — why  not  he  ?" 

"Is  there  no  hope?"  I  moaned,  "so  strong,  so  fair! 
Our  Fowler  whose  proud  bird  would  brook  erewhile 
No  rival's  swoop  in  all  our  western  air ! 
Gather  the  ravens,  then,  in  funeral  file 
For  him,  life's  morn  yet  golden  in  his  hair  ? 

"Leave  me  not  hopeless,  ye  uiipitying  dames ! 
I  see,  half  seeing.     Tell  me,  ye  who  scanned 
The  stars,  Earth's  elders,  still  must  noblest  aims 
Be  traced  upon  oblivious  ocean-sands? 
Must  Hesper  join  the  wailing  ghosts  of  names?" 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


"When  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red  battle-dew, 
Ye  deem  we  choose  the  victor  and  the  slain: 
Say,,  choose  we  them  that  shall  be  leal  and  true 
To  the  heart's  longing,  the  high  faith  of  brain? 
Yet  there  the  victory  lies,  if  ye  but  knew. 

"Three  roots  bear  up  Dominion:  Knowledge,  Will, — 

These  twain  are  strong,  but  stronger  yet  the  third, — 

Obedience, — 't  is  the  great  tap-root  that  still, 

Knit  round  to  rock  of  Duty,  is  not  stirred, 

Though  Heaven-loosed  tempests  spend  their  utmost  skill. 

"Is  the  doom  sealed  for  Hesper?     'T  is  not  we 
Denounce  it,  but  the  Law  before  all  time : 
The  brave  makes  danger  opportunity; 
The  waverer,  paltering  with  the  chance  sublime, 
Dwarfs  it  to  peril :  which  shall  Hesper  be  ? 

"Hath  he  let  vultures  climb  his  eagle's  seat 
To  make  Jove's  bolts  purveyors  of  their  maw? 
Hath  he  the  Many's  plaudits  found  more  sweet 
Than  Wisdom?  held  Opinion's  wind  for  Law? 
Then  let  him  hearken  for  the  doomster's  feet ! 

"Rough  are  the  steps,  slow-hewn  in  flintiest  rock, 
States  climb  to  power  by;  slippery  those  with  gold 
Down  which  they  stumble  to  eternal  mock: 
No  chafferer's  hand  shall  long  the  sceptre  hold, 
Who,  given  a  Fate  to  shape,  would  sell  the  block. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


"We  sing  old  Sagas,,  songs  of  weal  and  woe, 
Mystic  because  cheaply  understood; 
Dark  sayings  are  not  ours ;  men  hear  and  know, 
See  Evil  weak,  see  strength  alone  in  Good, 
Yet  hope  to  stem  God's  fire  with  walls  of  tow. 

"Time  Was  unlocks  the  riddle  of  Time  Is, 
That  offers  choice  of  glory  or  of  gloom ; 
The  solver  makes  Time  Shall  Be  surely  his. 
But  hasten,  Sisters !  for  even  now  the  tomb 
Grates  its  slow  hinges  and  calls  from  the  abyss." 

"But  not  for  him,"  I  cried,  "not  yet  for  him, 
Whose  large  horizon,  westering,  star  by  star 
Wins  from  the  void  to  where  on  Ocean's  rim 
The  sunset  shuts  the  world  with  golden  bar, 
Not  yet  his  thews  shall  fail,  his  eyes  grow  dim ! 

"His  shall  be  larger  manhood,  save  for  those 
That  walk  unblenching  through  the  trial-fires; 
Not  suffering,  but  faint  heart,  is  worst  of  woes, 
And  he  no  base-born  son  of  craven  sires, 
Whose  eye  need  blench  confronted  with  his  foes. 

"Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for  those  who  win 
Death's  royal  purple  in  the  foeman's  lines; 
Peace,  too,  brings  tears ;  and  mid  the  battle-din, 
The  wiser  ear  some  text  of  God  divines, 
For  the  sheathed  blade  may  rust  with  darker  sin. 


285  ] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

"God,  give  us  peace !  not  such  as  lulls  to  sleep, 

But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with  purpose  knit ! 

And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor  sweep, 

Her  ports  all  up,  her  battle-lanterns  lit, 

And  her  leashed  thunders  gathering  for  their  leap !" 

So  cried  I  with  clenched  hands  and  passionate  pain, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  by  Potomac's  side; 
Again  the  loon  laughed  mocking,  and  again 
The  echoes  bayed  far  down  the  night  and  died, 
While  waking  I  recalled  my  wandering  brain. 


Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemoration 
July  21,  1865 


Weak-winged  is  song, 

Nor  aims  at  that  clear-ethered  height 

Whither  the  brave  deeds  climb  for  light : 

We  seem  to  do  them  wrong. 
Bringing  our  robin's-leaf  to  deck  their  hearse 
Who  in  warm  life-blood  wrote  their  nobler  verse, 
Our  trivial  song  to  honor  those  who  come 
With  ears  attuned  to  strenuous  trump  and  drum, 
And  shaped  in  squadron-strophes  their  desire, 
Live  battle-odes  whose  lines  were  steel  and  fire: 

Yet  sometimes  feathered  words  are  strong, 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

A  gracious  memory  to  buoy  up  and  save 
From  Lethe's  dreamless  ooze,  the  common  grave 
Of  the  unventurous  throng. 

II 

To-day  our  Reverend  Mother  welcomes  back 
Her  wisest  Scholars,  those  who  understood 
The  deeper  teaching  of  her  mystic  tome, 

And  offered  their  fresh  lives  to  make  it  good : 

No  lore  of  Greece  or  Rome, 
No  science  peddling  with  the  names  of  things, 
Or  reading  stars  to  find  inglorious  fates, 

Can  lift  our  life  with  wings 
Far  from  Death's  idle  gulf  that  for  the  many  waits, 

And  lengthen  out  our  dates 
With  that  clear  fame  whose  memory  sings 
In  manly  hearts  to  come,  and  nerves  them  and  dilates 
Nor  such  thy  teaching,  Mother  of  us  all ! 

Not  such  the  trumpet-call 

Of  thy  diviner  mood, 

That  could  thy  sons  entice 
From  happy  homes  and  toils,  the  fruitful  nest 
Of  those  half-virtues  which  the  world  calls  best, 

Into  War's  tumult  rude; 

But  rather  far  that  stern  device 
The  sponsors  chose  that  round  thy  cradle  stood 

In  the  dim,  unventured  wood, 

The  Veritas  that  lurks  beneath 

The  letter's  unprolific  sheath, 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Life  of  whate'er  makes  life  worth  living, 
Seed-grain  of  high  emprise,  immortal  food, 

One  heavenly  thing  whereof  earth  hath  the  giving. 

Ill 

Many  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's  best  oil 

Amid  the  dust  of  books  to  find  her, 
Content  at  last,  for  guerdon  of  their  toil, 

With  the  cast  mantle  she  hath  left  behind  her. 
Many  in  sad  faith  sought  for  her, 
Many  with  crossed  hands  sighed  for  her; 
But  these,  our  brothers,  fought  for  her, 
At  life's  dear  peril  wrought  for  her, 
So  loved  her  that  they  died  for  her, 
Tasting  the  raptured  fleetness 
Of  her  divine  completeness : 
Their  higher  instinct  knew 

Those  love  her  best  who  to  themselves  are  true, 
And  what  they  dare  to  dream  of,  dare  to  do ; 
They  followed  her  and  found  her 
Where  all  may  hope  to  find, 
Not  in  the  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  mind, 
But  beautiful,  with  danger's  sweetness  round  her. 
Where  faith  made  whole  with  deed 
Breathes  its  awakening  breath 
Into  the  lifeless  creed, 
They  saw  her  plumed  and  mailed, 
With  sweet,  stern  face  unveiled, 
And  all-repaying  eyes,  looked  proud  on  them  in  death. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

IV 

Our  slender  life  runs  rippling  by,  and  glides 
Into  the  silent  hollow  of  the  past; 

What  is  there  that  abides 
To  make  the  next  age  better  for  the  last? 

Is  earth  too  poor  to  give  us 
Something  to  live  for  here  that  shall  outlive  us  ? 

Some  more  substantial  boon 

Than  such  as  flows  and  ebbs  with  Fortune's  fickle  moon  ? 
The  little  that  we  see 
From  doubt  is  never  free; 
The  little  that  we  do 
Is  but  half-nobly  true; 
With  our  laborious  hiving 

What  men  call  treasure,  and  the  gods  call  dross, 
Life  seems  a  jest  of  Fate's  contriving, 
Only  secure  in  every  one's  conniving, 
A  long  account  of  nothings  paid  with  loss, 
Where  we  poor  puppets,  jerked  by  unseen  wires, 

After  our  little  hour  of  strut  and  rave, 
With  all  our  pasteboard  passions  and  desires, 
Loves,  hates,  ambitions,  and  immortal  fires, 
Are  tossed  pell-mell  together  in  the  grave. 
But  stay !  no  age  was  e'er  degenerate, 
Unless  men  held  it  at  too  cheap  a  rate, 
For  in  our  likeness  still  we  shape  our  fate. 

Ah,  there  is  something  here 
Unfathomed  by  the  cynic's  sneer, 
Something  that  gives  our  feeble  light 


289  ] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

A  high  immunity  from  Night, 
Something  that  leaps  life's  narrow  bars 
To  claim  its  birthright  with  the  hosts  of  heaven; 
A  seed  of  sunshine  that  can  leaven 
Our  earthly  dulness  with  the  beams  of  stars, 

And  glorify  our  clay 

With  light  from  fountains  elder  than  the  Day; 
A  conscience  more  divine  than  we, 
A  gladness  fed  with  secret  tears, 
A  vexing,  forward-reaching  sense 
Of  some  more  noble  permanence ; 

A  light  across  the  sea, 

Which  haunts  the  soul  and  will  not  let  it  be, 
Still  beaconing  from  the  heights  of  undegenerate  years. 


Whither  leads  the  path 
To  ampler  fates  that  leads  ? 
Not  down  through  flowery  meads, 
To  reap  an  aftermath 
Of  youth's  vainglorious  weeds, 
But  up  the  steep,  amid  the  wrath 
And  shock  of  deadly-hostile  creeds, 
\Vhere  the  world's  best  hope  and  stay 
By  battle's  flashes  gropes  a  desperate  way, 
And  every  turf  the  fierce  foot  clings  to  bleeds. 
Peace  hath  her  not  ignoble  wreath, 
Ere  yet  the  sharp,  decisive  word 
Light  the  black  lips  of  cannon,  and  the  sword 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Dreams  in  its  easeful  sheath; 
But  some  day  the  live  coal  behind  the  thought, 

Whether  from  Baal's  stone  obscene, 

Or  from  the  shrine  serene 

Of  God's  pure  altar  brought, 
Bursts  up  in  flame;  the  war  of  tongue  and  pen 
Learns  with  what  deadly  purpose  it  was  fraught, 
And,  helpless  in  the  fiery  passion  caught, 
Shakes  all  the  pillared  state  with  shock  of  men: 
Some  day  the  soft  Ideal  that  we  wooed 
Confronts  us  fiercely,  foe-beset,  pursued, 
And  cries  reproachful:  "Was  it,  then,  my  praise, 
And  not  myself  was  loved?     Prove  now  thy  truth; 
I  claim  of  thee  the  promise  of  thy  youth ; 
Give  me  thy  life,  or  cower  in  empty  phrase, 
The  victim  of  thy  genius,  not  its  mate !" 
Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 

So  bountiful  is  Fate: 

But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 

When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 

This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 

And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 

Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 

Who  stands  self-poised  on  manhood's  solid  earth, 
Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth, 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he  needs. 

[291  } 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

VI 

Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief: 
Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored  urn. 
Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote: 

For  him  her  Old- World  moulds  aside  she  threw, 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  stedfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 
Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 
But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and  thrust. 

[&*] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 
A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors  blind; 
Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 

Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 
And  thwart  her  genial  will ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to  face. 

I  praise  him  not ;  it  were  too  late ; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives^  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he: 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes; 

These  are  all  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 

The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 


SOS 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 


VII 


Long  as  man's  hope  insatiate  can  discern 
Or  only  guess  some  more  inspiring  goal 
Outside  of  Self^  enduring  as  the  pole, 
Along  whose  course  the  flying  axles  burn 
Of  spirits  bravely-pitched,  earth's  manlier  brood; 

Long  as  below  we  cannot  find 
The  meed  that  stills  the  inexorable  mind; 
So  long  this  faith  to  some  ideal  Good, 
Under  whatever  mortal  names  it  masks, 
Freedom,  Law,  Country,  this  ethereal  mood 

That  thanks  the  Fates  for  their  severer  tasks, 
Feeling  its  challenged  pulses  leap, 
While  others  skulk  in  subterfuges  cheap, 

And,  set  in  Danger's  van,  has  all  the  boon  it  asks, 
Shall  win  man's  praise  and  woman's  love, 
Shall  be  a  wisdom  that  we  set  above 

All  other  skills  and  gifts  to  culture  dear, 

A  virtue  round  whose  forehead  we  inwreathe 
Laurels  that  with  a  living  passion  breathe 

When  other  crowns  grow,  while  we  twine  them,  sear. 
What  brings  us  thronging  these  high  rites  to  pay, 
And  seal  these  hours  the  noblest  of  our  year, 
Save  that  our  brothers  found  this  better  way  ? 


294 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

VIII 

We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That  flows  with  Freedom's  honey  and  milk; 
But  't  was  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as  silk. 
We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our  best; — 
Ah,  me !  not  all !  some  come  not  with  the  rest, 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any  here ! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my  strain, 
But  the  sad  strings  complain, 
And  will  not  please  the  ear: 
I  sweep  them  for  a  paean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away  in  pain. 
In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb  turf  wraps, 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to  gain: 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving; 
I  with  uncovered  head 
Salute  the  sacred  dead, 

Who  went,  and  who  return  not. — Say  not  so ! 
'T  is  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  repay, 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the  way; 
Virtue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in  the  grave ; 
No  bar  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave; 

And  to  the  saner  mind 

We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed  behind. 
Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow! 


295 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence  lack: 
I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row, 
With  ever-youthful  brows  that  nobler  show ; 
We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining  track ; 

In  every  nobler  mood 
We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 
Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration; 

They  come  transfigured  back, 
Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted  ways, 
Beautiful  evermore^  and  with  the  rays 
Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Expectation ! 

IX 

But  is  there  hope  to  save 
Even  this  ethereal  essence  from  the  grave? 
What  ever  'scaped  Oblivion's  subtle  wrong 
Save  a  few  clarion  names,  or  golden  threads  of  song? 

Before  my  musing  eye 
The  mighty  ones  of  old  sweep  by, 
Disvoiced  now  and  insubstantial  things, 
As  noisy  once  as  we ;  poor  ghosts  of  kings, 
Shadows  of  empire  wholly  gone  to  dust, 
And  many  races,  nameless  long  ago, 
To  darkness  driven  by  that  imperious  gust 
Of  ever-rushing  Time  that  here  doth  blow: 
O  visionary  world,  condition  strange, 
Where  naught  abiding  is  but  only  Change, 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Where  the  deep-bolted  stars   themselves   still  shift  and 
range ! 

Shall  we  to  more  continuance  make  pretence  ? 
Renown  builds  tombs;  a  life-estate  is  Wit; 

And,  bit  by  bit, 
The  cunning  years  steal  all  from  us  but  woe ; 

Leaves  are  we,  whose  decays  no  harvest  sow. 
But,  when  we  vanish  hence, 

Shall  they  lie  forceless  in  the  dark  below, 

Save  to  make  green  their  little  length  of  sods, 

Or  deepen  pansies  for  a  year  or  two, 

Who  now  to  us  are  shining-sweet  as  gods  ? 

Was  dying  all  they  had  the  skill  to  do  ? 

That  were  not  fruitless:  but  the  Soul  resents 
Such  short  lived  service,  as  if  blind  events 

Ruled  without  her,  or  earth  could  so  endure: 

She  claims  a  more  divine  investiture 

Of  longer  tenure  than  Fame's  airy  rents ; 

Whatever  she  touches  doth  her  nature  share; 

Her  inspiration  haunts  the  ennobled  air, 
Gives  eyes  to  mountains  blind, 

Ears  to  the  deaf  earth,  voices  to  the  wind, 

And  her  clear  trump  sings  succor  everywhere 

By  lonely  bivouacs  to  the  wakeful  mind; 

For  soul  inherits  all  that  soul  could  dare: 
Yea,  Manhood  hath  a  wider  span 

And  larger  privilege  of  life  than  man. 

The  single  deed,  the  private  sacrifice, 

So  radiant  now  through  proudly-hidden  tears, 


297 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Is  covered  up  erelong  from  mortal  eyes 
With  thoughtless  drift  of  the  deciduous  years; 
But  that  high  privilege  that  makes  all  men  peers, 
That  leap  of  heart  whereby  a  people  rise 

Up  to  a  noble  anger's  height, 
And,  flamed  on  by  the  Fates,  not  shrink,  but  grow  more 

bright, 

That  swift  validity  in  noble  veins, 
Of  choosing  danger  and  disdaining  shame, 

Of  being  set  on  flame 

By  the  pure  fire  that  flies  all  contact  base, 
But  wraps  its  chosen  with  angelic  might, 

These  are  imperishable  gains, 
Sure  as  the  sun,  medicinal  as  light, 
These  hold  great  futures  in  their  lusty  reins 
And  certify  to  earth  a  new  imperial  race. 

X 

Who  now  shall  sneer  ? 
Who  dare  again  to  say  we  trace 
Our  lines  to  a  plebeian  race  ? 

Roundhead  and  Cavalier ! 

Dumb  are  those  names  erewhile  in  battle  loud; 
Dream-footed  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

They  flit  across  the  ear: 

That  is  best  blood  that  hath  most  iron  in  't 
To  edge  resolve  with,  pouring  without  stint 

For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 
Tell  us  not  of  Plantagenets, 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Hapsburgs,  and  Guelfs,  whose  thin  bloods  crawl 
Down  from  some  victor  in  a  border-brawl ! 

How  poor  their  outworn  coronets, 
Matched  with  one  leaf  of  that  plain  civic  wreath 
Our  brave  for  honor's  blazon  shall  bequeath,, 

Through  whose  desert  a  rescued  Nation  sets 
Her  heel  on  treason,  and  the  trumpet  hears 
Shout  victory,  tingling  Europe's  sullen  ears 

With  vain  resentments  and  more  vain  regrets ! 

XI 

Not  in  anger,  not  in  pride, 
Pure  from  passion's  mixture  rude 
Ever  to  base  earth  allied, 
But  with  far-heard  gratitude, 
Still  with  heart  and  voice  renewed, 

To  heroes  living  and  dear  martyrs  dead, 
The  strain  should  close  that  consecrates  our  brave. 

Lift  the  heart  and  lift  the  head ! 

Lofty  be  its  mood  and  grave, 

Not  without  a  martial  ring, 

Not  without  a  prouder  tread 

And  a  peal  of  exultation: 

Little  right  has  he  to  sing 

Through  whose  heart  in  such  an  hour 

Beats  no  march  of  conscious  power, 

Sweeps  no  tumult  of  elation ! 

'T  is  no  Man  we  celebrate, 

By  his  country's  victories  great, 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

A  hero  half,  and  half  the  whim  of  Fate, 

But  the  pith  arid  marrow  of  a  Nation 
Drawing  force  from  all  her  men, 
Highest,  humblest,  weakest,  all, 
For  her  time  of  need,  and  then 
Pulsing  it  again  through  them, 
Till  the  basest  can  no  longer  cower, 
Feeling  his  soul  spring  up  divinely  tall, 
Touched  but  in  passing  by  her  mantle-hem. 
Come  back,  then,  noble  pride,  for  't  is  her  dower ! 
How  could  poet  ever  tower, 
If  his  passions,  hopes,  and  fears, 
If  his  triumphs  and  his  tears, 
Kept  not  measure  with  his  people? 
Boom,  cannon,  boom  to  all  the  winds  and  waves ! 
Clash  out,  glad  bells,  from  every  rocking  steeple ! 
Banners,  a-dance  writh  triumph,  bend  your  staves ! 
And  from  every  mountain-peak 
Let  beacon-fire  to  answering  beacon  speak, 
Katahdin  tell  Monadnock,  Whiteface  he, 
And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea  to  sea, 
Till  the  glad  news  be  sent 
Across  a  kindling  continent, 

Making  earth  feel  more  firm  and  air  breathe  braver: 
"Be  proud!  for  she  is  saved,  and  all  have  helped  to 

save  her ! 

She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood  of  the  poor, 
She  of  the  open  soul  and  open  door, 
With  room  about  her  hearth  for  all  mankind ! 


[300 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

The  fire  is  dreadful  in  her  eyes  no  more ; 
From  her  bold  front  the  helm  she  doth  unbind, 

Sends  all  her  handmaid  armies  back  to  spin, 
And  bids  her  navies,  that  so  lately  hurled 
Their  crashing  battle,  hold  their  thunders  in ; 
Swimming  like  birds  of  calm  along  the  unharmful 

shore. 

No  challenge  sends  she  to  the  elder  world, 
That  looked  askance  and  hated ;  a  light  scorn 
Plays  o'er  her  mouth,  as  round  her  mighty  knees 
She  calls  her  children  back,  and  waits  the  morn 

Of  nobler  day,  enthroned  between  her  subject  seas." 

XII 

Bow  down,  dear  Land,  for  thou  hast  found  release ! 
Thy  God,  in  these  distempered  days, 
Hath  taught  thee  the  sure  wisdom  of  His  ways, 
And  through  thine  enemies  hath  wrought  thy  peace ! 

Bow  down  in  prayer  and  praise ! 
No  poorest  in  thy  borders  but  may  now 
Lift  to  the  juster  skies  a  man's  enfranchised  brow. 
O  Beautiful!  my  Country!  ours  once  more! 
Smoothing  thy  gold  of  war-dishevelled  hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other  wore, 

And  letting  thy  set  lips, 

Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse, 
The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare, 
What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 

[SOI] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know  it, 
Among  the  Nations  bright  beyond  compare  ? 

What  were  our  lives  without  thee  ? 

What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee? 

We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee : 

We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee, 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare ! 


Auf  Wiedersehen 
Summer 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last, 
Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane; 
She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 
And  said, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright, 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 
She  said, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair; 

I  lingered  in  delicious  pain; 
Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare, 

Thinks  she, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

[302] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


'T  is  thirteen  years ;  once  more  I  press 
The  turf  that  silences  the  lane; 

I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 

I  smell  the  lilacs,  and — ah,  yes, 
I  hear,  "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too  fain, 
But  these — they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart; 

She  said,  "Auf  wiedersehen!" 


Palinode 
Autumn 

Still  thirteen  years :  't  is  autumn  now 
On  field  and  hill,  in  heart  and  brain; 

The  naked  trees  at  evening  sough; 

The  leaf  to  the  forsaken  bough 
Sighs  not, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

Two  watched  yon  oriole's  pendent  dome, 
That  now  is  void,  and  dank  with  rain, 

And  one, — O,  hope  more  frail  than  foam ! 

The  bird  to  his  deserted  home 
Sings  not, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

[303] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


The  loath  gate  swings  with  rusty  creak ; 

Once,  parting  there,  we  played  at  pain; 
There  came  a  parting,  when  the  weak 
And  fading  lips  essayed  to  speak 

Vainly, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

Somewhere  is  comfort,  somewhere  faith, 

Though  thou  in  outer  dark  remain; 
One  sweet  sad  voice  ennobles  death, 
And  still,  for  eighteen  centuries  saith 
Softly, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

If  earth  another  grave  must  bear, 

Yet  heaven  hath  won  a  sweeter  strain, 
And  something  whispers  my  despair, 
That,  from  an  orient  chamber  there, 
Floats  down, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 


Without  and  Within 

My  coachman,  in  the  moonlight  there, 
Looks  through  the  side  light  of  the  door; 

I  hear  him  with  his  brethren  swear, 
As  I  could  do, — but  only  more. 

Flattening  his  nose  against  the  pane, 
He  envies  me  my  brilliant  lot, 

Breathes  on  his  aching  fists  in  vain, 
And  dooms  me  to  a  place  more  hot. 

[304] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


He  sees  me  in  to  supper  go,, 

A  silken  wonder  by  my  side. 
Bare  arms,,  bare  shoulders,  and  a  row 

Of  flounces,,  for  the  door  too  wide. 

He  thinks  how  happy  is  my  arm 

'Neath  its  white-gloved  and  j  ewelled  load ; 
And  wishes  me  some  dreadful  harm,, 

Hearing  the  merry  corks  explode. 

Meanwhile  I  inly  curse  the  bore 
Of  hunting  still  the  same  old  coon, 

And  envy  him,,  outside  the  door, 
In  golden  quiets  of  the  moon. 

The  winter  wind  is  not  so  cold 

As  the  bright  smile  he  sees  me  win, 

Nor  the  host's  oldest  wine  so  old 
As  our  poor  gabble  sour  and  thin. 

I  envy  him  the  ungyved  prance 

With  which  his  freezing  feet  he  warms, 

And  drag  my  lady's-chains  and  dance 
The  galley-slave  of  dreary  forms. 

Oh,  could  he  have  my  share  of  din, 

And  I  his  quiet ! — past  a  doubt 
'T  would  still  be  one  man  bored  within, 

And  just  another  bored  without. 


305 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


Nay,  when,  once  paid  my  mortal  fee, 
Some  idler  on  my  headstone  grim 

Traces  the  moss-blurred  name,  will  he 
Think  me  the  happier,  or  I  him? 


The  Petition 

Oh,  tell  me  less  or  tell  me  more, 
Soft  eyes  with  mystery  at  the  core, 
That  always  seem  to  meet  my  own 
Frankly  as  pansies  fully  grown, 
Yet  waver  still  'tween  no  and  yes  ! 

So  swift  to  cavil  and  deny, 

Then  parley  with  concessions  shy, 

Dear  eyes,  that  make  their  youth  be  mine 

And  through  my  inmost  shadows  shine, 

Oh,  tell  me  more  or  tell  me  less  ! 


Telepathy 

"And  how  could  you  dream  of  meeting?" 
Nay,  how  can  you  ask  me,  sweet? 

All  day  my  pulse  had  been  beating 
The  tune  of  your  coming  feet. 


[306 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


And  as  nearer  and  ever  nearer 
I  felt  the  throb  of  your  tread, 

To  be  in  the  world  grew  dearer, 
And  iny  blood  ran  rosier  red. 

Love  called,  and  I  could  not  linger, 
But  sought  the  forbidden  tryst, 

As  music  follows  the  finger 
Of  the  dreaming  lutanist. 

And  though  you  had  said  it  and  said  it, 
"We  must  not  be  happy  to-day," 

Was  I  not  wiser  to  credit 

The  fire  in  my  feet  than  your  Nay? 


Credidimus  Jovem  Regnare 

O  days  endeared  to  every  Muse, 
WThen  nobody  had  any  Views, 
Nor,  while  the  cloudscape  of  his  mind 
By  every  breeze  was  new  designed, 
Insisted  all  the  world  should  see 
Camels  or  whales  where  none  there  be ! 
O  happy  days,  when  men  received 
From  sire  to  son  what  all  believed, 
And  left  the  other  world  in  bliss, 
Too  busy  with  bedevilling  this  ! 


[307] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Beset  by  doubts  of  every  breed 
In  the  last  bastion  of  my  creed, 
With  shot  and  shell  for  Sabbath-chime, 
I  watch  the  storming-party  climb, 
Panting  (their  prey  in  easy  reach), 
To  pour  triumphant  through  the  breach 
In  wall  that  shed  like  snowflakes  tons 
Of  missiles  from  old-fashioned  guns, 
But  crumble  'neath  the  storm  that  pours 
All  day  and  night  from  bigger  bores. 
There,  as  I  hopeless  watch  and  wait 
The  last  life-crushing  coil  of  Fate, 
Despair  finds  solace  in  the  praise 
Of  those  serene  dawn-rosy  days 
Ere  microscopes  had  made  us  heirs 
To  large  estates  of  doubts  and  snares, 
By  proving  that  the  title-deeds, 
Once  all-sufficient  for  men's  needs, 
Are  palimpsests  that  scarce  disguise 
The  tracings  of  still  earlier  lies, 
Themselves  as  surely  written  o'er 
An  older  fib  erased  before. 

So  from  these  days  I  fly  to  those 
That  in  the  landlocked  Past  repose, 
Where  no  rude  wind  of  doctrine  shakes 
From  bloom-flushed  boughs  untimely  flakes; 
Where  morning's  eyes  see  nothing  strange, 
No  crude  perplexity  of  change, 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

And  morrows  trip  along  their  ways 

Secure  as  happy  yesterdays. 

Then  there  were  rulers  who  could  trace 

Through  heroes  up  to  gods  their  race, 

Pledged  to  fair  fame  and  noble  use 

By  veins  from  Odin  filled  or  Zeus, 

And  under  bonds  to  keep  divine 

The  praise  of  a  celestial  line. 

Then  priests  could  pile  the  altar's  sods, 

With  whom  gods  spake  as  they  with  gods, 

And  everywhere  from  haunted  earth 

Broke  springs  of  wonder,  that  had  birth 

In  depths  divine  beyond  the  ken 

And  fatal  scrutiny  of  men; 

Then  hills  and  groves  and  streams  and  seas 

Thrilled  with  immortal  presences, 

Not  too  ethereal  for  the  scope 

Of  human  passion's  dream  or  hope. 

Now  Pan  at  last  is  surely  dead, 

And  King  No-Credit  reigns  instead, 

Whose  officers,  morosely  strict, 

Poor  Fancy's  tenantry  evict, 

Chase  the  last  Genius  from  the  door, 

And  nothing  dances  any  more. 

Nothing  ?     Ah,  yes,  our  tables  do, 

Drumming  the  Old  One's  own  tattoo, 

And,  if  the  oracles  are  dumb, 

Have  we  not  mediums  ?     Why  be  glum  ? 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Fly  thither?     Why,  the  very  air 

Is  full  of  hindrance  and  despair ! 

Fly  thither  ?     But  I  cannot  fly  ; 

My  doubts  enmesh  me  if  I  try,— 

Each  lilliputian,  but,  combined, 

Potent  a  giant's  limbs  to  bind. 

This  world  and  that  are  growing  dark; 

A  huge  interrogation  mark, 

The  Devil's  crook  episcopal, 

Still  borne  before  him  since  the  Fall, 

Blackens  with  its  ill-omened  sign 

The  old  blue  heaven  of  faith  benign. 

Whence?     Whither?     Wherefore?     How? 

Which?     Why? 
All  ask  at  once,  all  wait  reply. 
Men  feel  old  systems  cracking  under  'em ; 
Life  saddens  to  a  mere  conundrum 
Which  once  Religion  solved,  but  she 
Has  lost — has  Science  found  ? — the  key. 

What  was  snow-bearded  Odin,  trow, 
The  mighty  hunter  long  ago, 
Whose  horn  and  hounds  the  peasant  hears 
Still  when  the  Northlights  shake  their  spears  ? 
Science  hath  answers  twain^  I  Ve  heard ; 
Choose  which  you  will,  nor  hope  a  third; 
Whichever  box  the  trutli  be  stowed  in, 
There  's  not  a  sliver  left  of  Odin. 
Either  he  was  a  pinchbrowed  thing, 


310 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

With  scarcely  wit  a  stone  to  fling, 

A  creature  both  in  size  and  shape 

Nearer  than  we  are  to  the  ape, 

Who  hung  sublime  with  brat  and  spouse 

By  tail  prehensile  from  the  boughs, 

And,  happier  than  his  maimed  descendants, 

The  culture-curtailed  independents, 

Could  pluck  his  cherries  with  both  paws, 

And  stuff  with  both  his  big-boned  jaws; 

Or  else  the  core  his  name  enveloped 

Was  from  a  solar  myth  developed, 

Which,  hunted  to  its  primal  shoot,, 

Takes  refuge  in  a  Sanskrit  root,, 

Thereby  to  instant  death  explaining 

The  little  poetry  remaining. 

Try  it  with  Zeus,  't  is  j  ust  the  same ; 
The  thing  evades,  we  hug  a  name ; 
Nay,  scarcely  that, — perhaps  a  vapor 
Born  of  some  atmospheric  caper. 
All  Lempriere's  fables  blur  together 
In  cloudy  symbols  of  the  weather, 
And  Aphrodite  rose  from  frothy  seas 
But  to  illustrate  such  hypotheses. 
With  years  enough  behind  his  back, 
Lincoln  will  take  the  selfsame  track, 
And  prove,  hulled  fairly  to  the  cob, 
A  mere  vagary  of  Old  Prob. 
Give  the  right  man  a  solar  myth, 
And  he  '11  confute  the  sun  therewith. 


311 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

They  make  things  admirably  plain, 

But  one  hard  question  will  remain: 

If  one  hypothesis  you  lose, 

Another  in  its  place  you  choose, 

But,  your  faith  gone,  O  man  and  brother, 

Whose  shop  shall  furnish  you  another? 

One  that  will  wash,  I  mean,  and  wear, 

And  wrap  us  warmly  from  despair? 

While  they  are  clearing  up  our  puzzles, 

And  clapping  prophylactic  muzzles 

On  the  Actaeon's  hounds  that  sniff 

Our  devious  track  through  But  and  If, 

Would  they  'd  explain  away  the  Devil 

And  other  facts  that  won't  keep  level, 

But  rise  beneath  our  feet  or  fail, 

A  reeling  ship's  deck  in  a  gale ! 

God  vanished  long  ago,  iwis, 

A  mere  subjective  synthesis; 

A  doll,  stuffed  out  with  hopes  and  fears, 

Too  homely  for  us  pretty  dears, 

Who  want  one  that  conviction  carries, 

Last  make  of  London  or  of  Paris. 

He  gone,  I  felt  a  moment's  spasm, 

But  calmed  myself  with  Protoplasm, 

A  finer  name,  and,  what  is  more, 

As  enigmatic  as  before ; 

Greek,  too,  and  sure  to  fill  with  ease 

Minds  caught  in  the  Symplegades 

Of  soul  and  sense,  life's  two  conditions, 

[S12] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

Each  baffled  with  its  own  omniscience. 
The  men  who  labor  to  revise 
Our  Bibles  will,  I  hope,  be  wise, 
And  print  it  without  foolish  qualms 
Instead  of  God  in  David's  psalms : 
Noll  had  been  more  effective  far 
Could  he  have  shouted  at  Dunbar, 
"Rise,  Protoplasm !"     No  dourest  Scot 
Had  waited  for  another  shot. 

And  yet  I  frankly  must  confess 

A  secret  unforgivingness, 

And  shudder  at  the  saving  chrism 

Whose  best  New  Birth  is  Pessimism ; 

My  soul — I  mean  the  bit  of  phosphorus 

That  fills  the  place  of  what  that  was  for  us- 

Can't  bid  its  inward  bores  defiance 

With  the  new  nursery-tales  of  science. 

What  profits  me,  though  doubt  by  doubt, 

As  nail  by  nail,  be  driven  out, 

When  every  new  one,  like  the  last, 

Still  holds  my  coffin-lid  as  fast  ? 

Would  I  find  thought  a  moment's  truce, 

Give  me  the  young  world's  Mother  Goose 

With  life  and  joy  in  every  limb, 

The  chimney-corner  tales  of  Grimm  ! 

Our  dear  and  admirable  Huxley 
Cannot  explain  to  me  why  ducks  lay, 
Or,  rather,  how  into  their  eggs 

[818] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


Blunder  potential  wings  and  legs 
With  will  to  move  them  and  decide 
Whether  in  air  or  lymph  to  glide. 
Who  gets  a  hair's-breadth  on  by  showing 
That  Something  Else  set  all  agoing? 
Farther  and  farther  back  we  push 
From  Moses  and  his  burning  bush ; 
Cry,  "Art  Thou  there?"     Above,  below, 
All  Nature  mutters  yes  and  no! 
'T  is  the  old  answer:  we  're  agreed 
Being  from  Being  must  proceed, 
Life  be  Life's  source.     I  might  as  well 
Obey  the  meeting-house's  bell, 
And  listen  while  Old  Hundred  pours 
Forth  through  the  summer-opened  doors, 
From  old  and  young.     I  hear  it  yet, 
Swelled  by  bass-viol  and  clarinet, 
While  the  gray  minister,  with  face 
Radiant,  let  loose  his  noble  bass. 

If  Heaven  it  reached  not,  yet  its  roll 
Waked  all  the  echoes  of  the  soul, 
And  in  it  many  a  life  found  wings 
To  soar  away  from  sordid  things. 
Church  gone  and  singers  too,  the  song 
Sings  to  me  voiceless  all  night  long, 
Till  my  soul  beckons  me  afar, 
Glowing  and  trembling  like  a  star. 
Will  any  scientific  touch 
With  my  worn  strings  achieve  as  much  ? 

{814} 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 

I  don't  object,  not  I,  to  know 

My  sires  were  monkeys,  if  't  was  so ; 

I  touch  my  ear's  collusive  tip 

And  own  the  poor-relationship. 

That  apes  of  various  shapes  and  sizes 

Contained  their  germs  that  all  the  prizes 

Of  senate,  pulpit,  camp,  and  bar  win 

May  give  us  hopes  that  sweeten  Darwin. 

Who  knows  but  from  our  loins  may  spring 

(Long  hence)  some  winged  sweet-throated  thing 

As  much  superior  to  us 

As  we  to  Cynocephalus  ? 

This  is  consoling,  but,  alas, 
It  wipes  no  dimness  from  the  glass 
Where  I  am  flattening  my  poor  nose, 
In  hope  to  see  beyond  my  toes. 
Though  I  accept  my  pedigree, 
Yet  where,  pray  tell  me,  is  the  key 
That  should  unlock  a  private  door 
To  the  Great  Mystery,  such  no  more? 
Each  offers  his,  but  one  nor  all 
Are  much  persuasive  with  the  wall 
That  rises  now,  as  long  ago, 
Between  I  wonder  and  I  know, 
Nor  will  vouchsafe  a  pin-hole  peep 
At  the  veiled  Isis  in  its  keep. 
Where  is  no  door,  I  but  produce 
My  key  to  find  it  of  no  use. 

[315] 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL     1819-1891 


Yet  better  keep  it,  after  all,, 

Since  Nature  's  economical, 

And  who  can  tell  but  some  fine  day 

(If  it  occur  to  her)  she  may, 

In  her  good-will  to  you  and  me, 

Make  door  and  lock  to  match  the  key  ? 


[316] 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE     1819-1911 


Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord: 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage   where   the  grapes   of 

wrath  are  stored; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible  swift 

sword : 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling 

camps ; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and 

damps ; 
I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring 

lamps : 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel : 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace 

shall  deal; 
Let  the  Hero.,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his 

heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call 
retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judgment- 
seat: 

O,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him!  be  jubilant,  my 
feet! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 


817 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE     1819-1911 


In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 

With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me: 

As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 


Our  Orders 

Weave  no  more  silks,  ye  Lyons  looms, 
To  deck  our  girls  for  gay  delights  ! 

The  crimson  flower  of  battle  blooms, 
And  solemn  marches  fill  the  night. 

Weave  but  the  flag  whose  bars  to-day 
Drooped  heavy  o'er  our  early  dead, 

And  homely  garments,  coarse  and  gray, 
For  orphans  th.it  must  earn  their  bread! 

Keep  back  your  tunes,  ye  viols  sweet, 
That  poured  delight  from  other  lands ! 

Rouse  there  the  dancer's  restless  feet: 
The  trumpet  leads  our  warrior  bands. 

And  ye  that  wage  the  war  of  words 
With  mystic  fame  and  subtle  power, 

Go,  chatter  to  the  idle  birds, 

Or  teach  the  lesson  of  the  hour ! 


[818} 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE     1819-1911 


Ye  Sibyl  Arts,  in  one  stern  knot 

Be  all  your  offices  combined! 
Stand  close,  while  Courage  draws  the  lot, 

The  destiny  of  human  kind. 

And  if  that  destiny  could  fail, 

The  sun  should  darken  in  the  sky, 

The  eternal  bloom  of  Nature  pale, 

And  God,  and  Truth,  and  Freedom  die ! 


The  Summons 

I  expect  you  in  September 

With  the  glory  of  the  year: 

You  shall  make  the  Autumn  precious, 

And  the  death  of  Summer  dear ; 

You  shall  help  the  days  that  shorten, 

With  a  lengthening  of  delight; 

You  shall  whisper  long-drawn  blisses 

Through  the  gathering  screen  of  night. 

I  will  lead  you,  dream-enchanted, 
WThere  the  fairest  grasses  grow; 
I  will  hear  your  murmured  music 
Where  the  fresh  winds  pipe  and  blow. 
On  the  brown  heath,  weird-encircled, 
Shall  our  noiseless  footsteps  fall, — 
We,  communing  with  twin  counsel, 
Each  to  other  all  in  all. 

[819] 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE     1819-1911 


Leave  the  titles  that  men  owe  thee ; 
Like  the  first  pair  let  us  meet; 
Name  the  world  all  over  to  me, 
New-created  at  thy  feet; 
Gentle  task  and  duteous  learning, 
I  will  hang  upon  thy  breath 
With  the  tender  zeal  of  childhood, 
With  the  constancy  of  death. 

What  shall  be  the  gods  declare  not, — 
They  who  stamp  Love's  burning  coin 
Into  spangles  of  a  moment, 
Into  stars  that  deathless  shine. 
Oh !  the  foolish  music  lingers ; 
For  the  theme  is  heavenly  dear: 
I  expect  you  in  September, 
With  the  glories  of  the  year. 


330  ] 


WALT  WHITMAN     1819-1892 


0  Captain!     My  Captain! 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 

The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is 

won, 

The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and 

daring; 

But  O  heart!  heart!  heart! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is   flung — for  you  the  bugle 

trills, 
For   you   bouquets    and    ribbon'd   wreaths — for   you    the 

shores  a-crowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces 

turning ; 

Here  Captain  !  dear  father  ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You  Ve  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will, 


[321] 


WALT  WHITMAN     1819-1892 


The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object 

won; 

Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells ! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


[322] 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS     1819-1892 


On  a  Bust  of  Dante 

See,,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 

Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,,  how  grim, 

The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song: 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 

Perpetual  care  and  scorn,  abide ; 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng; 

Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

No  dream  his  life  was, — but  a  fight ; 
Could  any  Beatrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite  ? 
To  that  cold  Ghibelline's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  Beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  lips  as  Cumse's  cavern  close, 

The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 

But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 

Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 

Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 


[323] 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS     1819-1892 


Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 

When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed, 
With  no  companion  save  his  book, 

To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade; 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 

His  palm  upon  the  convent's  guest, 
The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 

Was  peace,  that  pilgrim's  one  request. 

Peace  dwells  not  here, — this  rugged  face 

Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 

The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth; 
Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 

Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth ; 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth; 

Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime ; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 

Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

O  Time !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 
The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou; 

That  poor  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 
Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now: 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS     1819-1892 

Before  his  name  the  nations  bow; 

His -words  are  parcel  for  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 


Mary  Booth 

What  shall  we  do  now,  Mary  being  dead, 
Or  say  or  write  that  shall  express  the  half? 

What  can  we  do  but  pillow  that  fair  head, 

And  let  the  Spring-time  write  her  epitaph  ? — 

As  it  will  soon,  in  snowdrop,  violet, 

Wind-flower  and  columbine  and  maiden's  tear; 
Each  letter  of  that  pretty  alphabet, 

That  spells  in  flowers  the  pageant  of  the  year. 

She  was  a  maiden  for  a  man  to  love ; 

She  was  a  woman  for  a  husband's  life; 
One  that  had  learned  to  value,  far  above 

The  name  of  love,  the  sacred  name  of  wife. 

Her  little  life-dream,  rounded  so  with  sleep, 
Had  all  there  is  of  life,  except  gray  hairs, — 

Hope,  love,  trust,  passion  and  devotion  deep; 
And  that  mysterious  tie  a  Mother  bears. 

She  hath  fulfilled  her  promise  and  hath  passed; 

Set  her  down  gently  at  the  iron  door ! 
Eyes  look  on  that  loved  image  for  the  last: 

Now  cover  it  in  earth, — her  earth  no  more. 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS     1819-1892 


Her  Epitaph 

The  handful  here,,  that  once  was  Mary's  earth,, 
Held,  while  it  breathed,  so  beautiful  a  soul, 

That,  when  she  died,  all  recognized  her  birth, 
And  had  their  sorrow  in  serene  control. 

"Not  here!  not  here!"  to  every  mourner's  heart 

The  wintry  wind  seemed  whispering  round  her  bier ; 

And  when  the  tomb-door  opened,  with  a  start 
We  heard  it  echoed  from  within, — "Not  here !" 

Shouldst  thou,  sad  pilgrim,  who  mayst  hither  pass, 

Note  in  these  flowers  a  delicater  hue, 
Should  spring  come  earlier  to  this  hallowed  grass, 

Or  the  bee  later  linger  on  the  dew, — 

Know  that  her  spirit  to  her  body  lent 

Such  sweetness,  grace,  as  only  goodness  can; 

That  even  her  dust,  and  this  her  monument, 
Have  yet  a  spell  to  stay  one  lonely  man, — • 

Lonely  through  life,  but  looking  for  the  day 
When  what  is  mortal  of  himself  shall  sleep, 

When  human  passion  shall  have  passed  away, 
And  Love  no  longer  be  a  thing  to  weep. 


[326] 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS     1819-1892 


Obituary 

Finding  Francesca  full  of  tears,  I  said, 

"Tell  me  thy  trouble."     "Oh,  my  dog  is  dead! 

Murdered  by  poison ! — no  one  knows  for  what — 

Was  ever  dog  born  capable  of  that?" 

"Child/' — I  began  to  say,  but  checked  my  thought, — 

"A  better  dog  can  easily  be  bought." 

For  no — what  animal  could  him  replace? 

Those  loving  eyes  !     That  fond,  confiding  face  ! 

Those  dear,  dumb  touches  !     Therefore  I  was  dumb. 

From  word  of  mine  could  any  comfort  come? 

A  bitter  sorrow  't  is  to  lose  a  brute 

Friend,  dog  or  horse,  for  grief  must  then  be  mute, — 

So  many  smile  to  see  the  rivers  shed 

Of  tears  for  one  poor,  speechless  creature  dead. 

When  parents  die  there  's  many  a  word  to  say — 

Kind  words,  consoling — one  can  always  pray ; 

When  children  die  't  is  natural  to  tell 

Their  mother,  "Certainly,  with  them  'tis  well!" 

But  for  a  dog,  't  was  all  the  life  he  had, 

Since  death  is  end  of  dogs,  or  good  or  bad. 

This  was  his  world ;  he  was  contented  here ; 

Imagined  nothing  better,  naught  more  dear, 

Than  his  young  mistress;  sought  no  brighter  sphere; 

Having  no  sin,  asked  not  to  be  forgiven ; 

Ne'er  guessed  at  God  nor  ever  dreamed  of  heaven. 


327 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS     1819-1892 

Now  he  has  passed  away,,  so  much  of  love 
Goes  from  our  life,  without  one  hope  above ! 
When  a  dog  dies  there  's  nothing  to  be  said 
But — kiss  me,  darling  ! — dear  old  Smiler  's  dead. 


Paradisi  Gloria 

"0  frate  iniol  ciascuna  e  cittadina 
D'  una  vera  citta"  .... 

There  is  a  city,  builded  by  no  hand, 
And  unapproachable  by  sea  or  shore, 

And  unassailable  by  any  band 

Of  storming  soldiery  for  evermore. 

There  we  no  longer  shall  divide  our  time 
By  acts  or  pleasures, — doing  petty  things 

Of  work  or  warfare,  merchandise  or  rhyme ; 
But  we  shall  sit  beside  the  silver  springs 

That  flow  from  God's  own  footstool,  and  behold 
Sages  and  martyrs,  and  those  blessed  few 

Who  loved  us  once  and  were  beloved  of  old, 
To  dwell  with  them  and  walk  with  them  anew, 

In  alternations  of  sublime  repose, 
Musical  motion,  the  perpetual  play 

Of  every  faculty  that  Heaven  bestows 

Through  the  bright,  busy,  and  eternal  day. 

[328] 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS     1819-1892 

Saint  Peray 

When  to  any  saint  I  pray, 
It  shall  be  to  Saint  Peray. 
He  alone,  of  all  the  brood, 
Ever  did  me  any  good: 
Many  I  have  tried  that  are 
Humbugs  in  the  calendar. 

On  the  Atlantic,  faint  and  sick, 
Once  I  prayed  Saint  Dominick: 
He  was  holy,  sure,  and  wise ; — 
Was  't  not  he  that  did  devise 
Auto  da  Fes  and  rosaries  ? — 
But  for  one  in  my  condition 
This  good  saint  was  no  physician. 

Next,  in  pleasant  Normandie, 
I  made  a  prayer  to  Saint  Denis, 
In  the  great  cathedral,  where 

All  the  ancient  kings  repose ; 
But,  how  I  was  swindled  there 

At  the  "Golden  Fleece," — he  knows  ! 

In  my  wanderings,  vague  and  various, 
Reaching  Naples — as  I  lay 
Watching  Vesuvius  from  the  bay, 

I  besought  Saint  Januarius. 

But  I  was  a  fool  to  try  him ; 

Naught  I  said  could  liquefy  him; 

[329] 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS     1819-1892 

And  I  swear  he  did  me  wrong, 
Keeping  me  shut  up  so  long 
In  that  pest-house,  with  obscene 
Jews  and  Greeks  and  things  unclean — 
What  need  had  I  of  quarantine  ? 

In  Sicily  at  least  a  score, — 
In  Spain  about  as  many  more, — 
And  in  Rome  almost  as  many 
As  the  loves  of  Don  Giovanni, 
Did  I  pray  to — sans  reply; 
Devil  take  the  tribe ! — said  I. 

Worn  with  travel,  tired  and  lame, 

To  Assisi's  walls  I  came : 

Sad  and  full  of  homesick  fancies, 

I  addressed  me  to  Saint  Francis : 

But  the  beggar  never  did 

Anything  as  he  was  bid, 

Never  gave  me  aught — but  fleas, — 

Plenty  had  I  at  Assise. 

But  in  Provence,  near  Vaucluse, 

Hard  by  the  Rhone,  I  found  a  Saint 

Gifted  with  a  wondrous  juice, 
Potent  for  the  worst  complaint. 

'T  was  at  Avignon  that  first — 
In  the  witching  time  of  thirst — 
To  my  brain  the  knowledge  came 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS     1819-1892 

Of  this  blessed  Catholic's  name; 
Forty  miles  of  dust  that  day 
Made  me  welcome  Saint  Peray. 

Though  till  then  I  had  not  heard 
Aught  about  him,  ere  a  third 
Of  a  litre  passed  my  lips, 
All  saints  else  were  in  eclipse. 
For  his  gentle  spirit  glided 

With  such  magic  into  mine, 
That  methought  such  bliss  as  I  did 

Poet  never  drew  from  wine. 

Rest  he  gave  me  and  refection, — 

Chastened  hopes,  calm  retrospection, — 

Softened  images  of  sorrow, 

Bright  forebodings  for  the  morrow, — 

Charity  for  what  is  past, — 

Faith  in  something  good  at  last. 

Now,  why  should  any  almanack 

The  name  of  this  good  creature  lack? 

Or  wherefore  should  the  breviary 

Omit  a  saint  so  sage  and  merry  ? 

The  Pope  himself  should  grant  a  day 

Especially  to  Saint  Peray. 

But,  since  no  day  hath  been  appointed, 

On  purpose,  by  the  Lord's  anointed, 

Let  us  not  wait — we  '11  do  him  right ; 

Send  round  your  bottles,  Hal — and  set  your  night. 

[331] 


THEODORE  O'HARA     1820-1867 


The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 
No  more  on  Life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms ; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 


THEODORE  O'HARA     1820-1867 


The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past ; 
Nor  war's  wild  note  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  nevermore  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe, 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "Victory  or  Death." 

Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain; 
And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 


THEODORE  O'HARA     1820-1867 


'T  was  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 
The  flower  of  his  beloved  land, 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain, 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  mouldered  slain. 
The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air. 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave: 
She  claims  from  war  his  richest  spoil — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 


THEODORE  O'HARA     1820-1867 


Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield; 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here,, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Rest  on,,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead ! 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave ; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave ; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb. 


[335] 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ     1822-1872 


Some  Things  Love  Me 

All  within  and  all  without  me 

Feel  a  melancholy  thrill; 
And  the  darkness  hangs  about  me, 

Oh,  how  still; 
To  my  feet,  the  river  glideth 

Through  the  shadow,  sullen,  dark ; 
On   the   stream  the  white  moon    rideth, 

Like  a  barque — 
And  the  linden  leans  above  me, 

Till  I  think  some  things  there  be 
In  the  dreary  world  that  love  me, 

Even  me ! 

Gentle  buds  are  blooming  near  me, 

Shedding  sweetest  breath  around; 
Countless  voices  rise,  to  cheer  me, 

From  the  ground; 
And  the  lone  bird  comes — I  hear  it 

In  the  tall  and  windy  pine 
Pour  the  sadness  of  its  spirit 

Into  mine; 
There  it  swings  and  sings  above  me, 

Till  I  think  some  things  there  be 
In  this  dreary  world  that  love  me, 

Even  me ! 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ     1822-1872 

Now  the  moon  hath  floated  to  me, 

On  the  stream  I  see  it  sway, 
Swinging,  boat-like,  as  't  would  woo  me 

Far  away — 
And  the  stars  bend  from  the  azure, 

I  could  reach  them  where  I  lie, 
And  they  whisper  all  the  pleasure 

Of  the  sky. 
There  they  hang  and  smile  above  me, 

Till  I  think  some  things  there  be 
In  the  very  heavens  that  love  me, 

Even  me ! 


The  Celestial  Army 

I  stood  by  the  open  casement 
And  looked  upon  the  night, 

And  saw  the  westward-going  stars 
Pass  slowly  out  of  sight. 

Slowly  the  bright  procession 
Went  down  the  gleaming  arch, 

And  my  soul  discerned  the  music 
Of  their  long  triumphal  march ; 

Till  the  great  celestial  army, 

Stretching  far  beyond  the  poles, 

Became  the  eternal  symbol 

Of  the  mighty  march  of  souls. 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ     1822-1872 


Onward,  forever  onward, 

Red  Mars  led  down  his  clan; 

And  the  Moon,  like  a  mailed  maiden, 
Was  riding  in  the  van. 

And  some  were  bright  in  beauty, 
And  some  were  faint  and  small, 

But  these  might  be  in  their  great  height 
The  noblest  of  them  all. 

Downward,  forever  downward, 

Behind  Earth's  dusky  shore 
They  passed  into  the  unknown  night, 

They  passed  and  were  no  more. 

No  more  !     Oh,  say  not  so  ! 

And  downward  is  not  just; 
For  the  sight  is  weak  and  the  sense  is  dim 

That  looks  through  heated  dust. 

The  stars  and  the  mailed  moon, 

Though  they  seem  to  fall  and  die, 

Still  sweep  with  their  embattled  lines 
An  endless  reach  of  sky. 

And  though  the  hills  of  Death 

May  hide  the  bright  array, 
The  marshalled  brotherhood  of  souls 

Still  keeps  its  upward  way. 


[338] 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ     1822-1872 


Upward,  forever  upward, 
I  see  their  march  sublime, 

And  hear  the  glorious  music 
Of  the  conquerors  of  Time. 

And  long  let  me  remember, 
That  the  palest,  fainting  one 

May  to  diviner  vision  be 
A  bright  and  blazing  sun. 


Sheridan's  Ride 

Up  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war, 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar ; 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 


339] 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ     1822-1872 


But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good,  broad  highway  leading  down; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 

Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight, 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need ; 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed ; 

Hills  rose  and  fell;  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  South, 

The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth; 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed,  and  the  heart  of  the  master 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind, 

And  the  steed,  like  a  barque  fed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eyes  full  of  fire. 

But  lo !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire ; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  onlv  five  miles  away. 


340] 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ     1822-1872 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the  groups 

Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops ; 

What  was  done  ?  what  to  do  ?  a  glance  told  him  both, 

Then,  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrible  oath, 

He  dashed  down  the  line  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there,  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray; 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's  play, 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 

"I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 

From  Winchester,  down  to  save  the  day !" 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 

Hurrah !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man ! 

And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 

Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 

The  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame; 

There  with  the  glorious  general's  name, 

Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright, 

"Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day, 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 

From  Winchester,  twenty  miles  away !" 


[341] 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS     1824-1892 


O  listen  to  the  sounding  sea 

That  beats  on  the  remorseless  shore, 
O  listen !  for  that  sound  will  be 

When  our  wild  hearts  shall  beat  no  more. 

O  listen  well  and  listen  long! 

For  sitting  folded  close  to  me, 
You  could  not  hear  a  sweeter  song 

Than  that  hoarse  murmur  of  the  sea. 


Spring  Song 

A  bird  sang  sweet  and  strong 
In  the  top  of  the  highest  tree, 

He  said,  "I  pour  out  my  heart  in  song 
For  the  summer  that  soon  shall  be." 

But  deep  in  the  shady  wood, 
Another  bird  sang,  "I  pour 

My  heart  on  the  solemn  solitude 

For  the  springs  that  return  no  more. 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS     1824-1892 


Egyptian  Serenade 

Sing  again  the  song  you  sung 
When  we  were  together  young — 
When  there  were  but  you  and  I 
Underneath  the  summer  sky. 

Sing  the  song,  and  o'er  and  o'er 
Though  I  know  that  nevermore 
Will  it  seem  the  song  you  sung 
When  we  were  together  young. 


[343] 


PHOEBE  GARY     1824r-1871 


Nearer  Home 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er ; 

I  am  nearer  home  to-day 

Than  I  ever  have  been  before ; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house, 
Where  the  many  mansions  be ; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea ; 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life, 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown! 

But  lying  darkly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 
Is  the  silent,  unknown  stream, 

That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 

Come  to  the  dread  abysm: 
Closer  Death  to  my  lips 

Presses  the  awful  chrism. 

Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gained  the  brink; 
If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 

Even  to-day  than  I  think; 


PHOEBE  GARY     1824-1871 


Father,  perfect  my  trust ; 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death, 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 

On  the  rock  of  a  living  faith ! 


Alas! 

Since,  if  you  stood  by  my  side  to-day, 

Only  our  hands  could  meet, 
What  matter  that  half  the  weary  world 

Lies  between  our  feet; 

That  I  am  here  by  the  lonesome  sea, 
You  by  the  pleasant  Rhine? — 

Our  hearts  were  just  as  far  apart 
If  I  held  your  hand  in  mine ! 

Therefore,  with  never  a  backward  glance, 

I  leave  the  past  behind; 
And  standing  here  by  the  sea  alone, 

I  give  it  to  the  wind. 

I  give  it  all  to  the  cruel  wind, 

And  I  have  no  word  to  say ; 
Yet,  alas  !  to  be  as  we  have  been, 

And  to  be  as  we  are  to-day ! 


[345] 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 

The  Incognita  of  Raphael 

Long  has  the  summer  sunlight  shone 
On  the  fair  form,  the  quaint  costume; 

Yet,  nameless  still,  she  sits,  unknown, 
A  lady  in  her  youthful  bloom. 

Fairer  for  this !  no  shadows  cast 
Their  blight  upon  her  perfect  lot, 

Whate'er  her  future  or  her  past, 

In  this  bright  moment  matters  not. 

No  record  of  her  high  descent 

There  needs,  nor  memory  of  her  name; 
Enough  that  Raphael's  colors  blent 

To  give  her  features  deathless  fame! 

'T  was  his  anointing  hand  that  set 
The  crown  of  beauty  on  her  brow; 

Still  lives  its  early  radiance  yet, 
As  at  the  earliest,  even  now. 

'T  is  not  the  ecstasy  that  glows 
In  all  the  rapt  Cecilia's  grace ; 

Nor  yet  the  holy,  calm  repose 
He  painted  on  the  Virgin's  face. 

Less  of  the  heavens,  and  more  of  earth, 
There  lurk  within  these  earnest  eyes 

The  passions  that  have  had  their  birth 
And  grown  beneath  Italian  skies. 

[346] 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 


What  mortal  thoughts,  and  cares,  and  dreams, 
What  hopes,  and  fears,  and  longings  rest 

Where  falls  the  folded  veil,  or  gleams 
The  golden  necklace  on  her  breast ! 

What  mockery  of  painted  glow 
May  shade  the  secret  soul  within; 

What  griefs  from  passion's  overflow, 
What  shame  that  follows  after  sin! 

Yet  calm  as  heaven's  serenest  deeps 

Are  those  pure  eyes,  those  glances  pure; 

And  queenly  is  the  state  she  keeps, 
In  beauty's  lofty  trust  secure. 

And  who  has  strayed,  by  happy  chance, 

Through  all  those  grand  and  pictured  halls, 

Nor  felt  the  magic  of  her  glance, 
As  when  a  voice  of  music  calls? 

Not  soon  shall  I  forget  the  day, 

Sweet  day,  in  spring's  unclouded  time, 

While  on  the  glowing  canvas  lay 
The  light  of  that  delicious  clime; 

I  marked  the  matchless  colors  wreathed 
On  the  fair  brow,  the  peerless  cheek; 

The  lips,  I  fancied,  almost  breathed 

The  blessings  that  they  could  not  speak. 


[347 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 

Fair  were  the  eyes  with  mine  that  bent 
Upon  the  picture  their  mild  gaze, 

And  dear  the  voice  that  gave  consent 
To  all  the  utterance  of  my  praise. 

O  fit  companionship  of  thought; 

O  happy  memories  shrined  apart; 
The  rapture  that  the  painter  wrought,, 

The  kindred  rapture  of  the  heart! 


Nothing  to   Wear 

Miss  Flora  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 

Has  made  three  separate  journeys  to  Paris, 
And  her  father  assures  me,  each  time  she  was  there, 

That  she  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Harris 
(Not  the  lady  whose  name  is  so  famous  in  history, 
But  plain  Mrs.  H.,  without  romance  or  mystery) 
Spent  six  consecutive  weeks,  without  stopping, 
In  one  continuous  round  of  shopping — 
Shopping  alone,  and  shopping  together, 
At  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  in  all  sorts  of  weather, 
For  all  manner  of  things  that  a  woman  can  put 
On  the  crown  of  her  head,  or  the  sole  of  her  foot, 
Or  wrap  round  her  shoulders,  or  fit  round  her  waist, 
Or  that  can  be  sewed  on,  or  pinned  on,  or  laced, 
Or  tied  on  with  a  string,  or  stitched  on  with  a  bow, 
In  front  or  behind,  above  or  below ; 


348 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 

For  bonnets,,  mantillas,  capes,  collars,  and  shawls; 
Dresses  for  breakfasts,  and  dinners,  and  balls ; 
Dresses  to  sit  in,  and  stand  in,  and  walk  in; 
Dresses  to  dance  in,  and  flirt  in,  and  talk  in; 
Dresses  in  which  to  do  nothing  at  all; 
Dresses  for  Winter,  Spring,  Summer,  and  Fall — 
All  of  them  different  in  color  and  shape, 
Silk,  muslin,  and  lace,  velvet,  satin,  and  crape, 
Brocade  and  broadcloth,  and  other  material, 
Quite  as  expensive  and  much  more  ethereal ; 
In  short,  for  all  things  that  could  ever  be  thought  of, 
Or  milliner,  modiste,  or  tradesman  be  bought  of, 

From  ten-thousand-franc  robes  to  twenty-sous  frills; 
In  all  quarters  of  Paris,  and  to  every  store, 
While  M'Flimsey  in  vain  stormed,  scolded,  and  swore, 

They  footed  the  streets,  and  he  footed  the  bills ! 

The  last  trip,  their  goods  shipped  by  the  steamer  Ardgo 
Formed,  M'Flimsey  declares,  the  bulk  of  her  cargo, 
Not  to  mention  a  quantity  kept  from  the  rest, 
Sufficient  to  fill  the  largest  sized  chest, 
Which  did  not  appear  on  the  ship's  manifest, 
But  for  which  the  ladies  themselves  manifested 
Such  particular  interest,  that  they  invested 
Their  own  proper  persons  in  layers  and  rows 
Of  muslins,  embroideries,  worked  under-clothes, 
Gloves,  handkerchiefs,  scarfs,  and  such  trifles  as  those ; 
Then,  wrapped  in  great  shawls,  like  Circassian  beauties, 
Gave  good-bye  to  the  ship,  and  go  by  to  the  duties. 
Her  relations  at  home  all  marvelled,  no  doubt, 


349} 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 

Miss  Flora  had  grown  so  enormously  stout 
For  an  actual  belle  and  a  possible  bride; 

But  the  miracle  ceased  when  she  turned  inside  out,, 

And  the  truth  came  to  light,  and  the  dry-goods  beside, 

Which,  in  spite  of  Collector  and  Custom-House  sentry, 

Had  entered  the  port  without  any  entry. 

And  yet,  though  scarce  three  months  have  passed  since 

the  day 

This  merchandise  went,  on  twelve  carts,  up  Broadway, 
This  same  Miss  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 
The  last  time  we  met  was  in  utter  despair, 
Because  she  had  nothing  whatever  to  wear ! 

NOTHING  TO  WEAR  !     Now,  as  this  is  a  true  ditty, 
I  do  not  assert — this,  you  know,  is  between  us — 

That  she  's  in  a  state  of  absolute  nudity, 

Like  Powers'  Greek  Slave  or  the  Medici  Venus ; 

But  I  do  mean  to  say,  I  have  heard  her  declare, 
When  at  the  same  moment  she  had  on  a  dress 
Which  cost  five  hundred  dollars,  and  not  a  cent  less, 
And  jewelry  worth  ten  times  more,  I  should  guess, 

That  she  had  not  a  thing  in  the  wide  world  to  wear ! 

I  should  mention  just  here,  that  out  of  Miss  Flora's 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  or  sixty  adorers, 

I  had  just  been  selected  as  he  who  should  throw  all 

The  rest  in  the  shade,  by  the  gracious  bestowal 

On  myself,  after  twenty  or  thirty  rejections, 

Of  those  fossil  remains  which  she  called  her  "affections," 


[350 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 

And  that  rather  decayed,  but  well-known  work  of  art, 
Which  Miss  Flora  persisted  in  styling  her  "heart." 
So  we  were  engaged.     Our  troth  had  been  plighted, 

Not  by  moonbeam  or  starbeam,  by  fountain  or  grove, 
But  in  a  front  parlor,  most  brilliantly  lighted, 

Beneath  the  gas-fixtures,  we  whispered  our  love. 
Without  any  romance,  or  raptures,  or  sighs, 
Without  any  tears  in  Miss  Flora's  blue  eyes, 
Or  blushes,  or  transports,  or  such  silly  actions, 
It  was  one  of  the  quietest  business  transactions, 
With  a  very  small  sprinkling  of  sentiment,  if  any, 
And  a  very  large  diamond  imported  by  Tiffany. 
On  her  virginal  lips  while  I  printed  a  kiss, 
She  exclaimed,  as  a  sort  of  parenthesis, 
And  by  way  of  putting  me  quite  at  my  ease, 
"You  know  I  'm  to  polka  as  much  as  I  please, 
And  flirt  when  I  like — now,  stop,  don't  you  speak — 
And  you  must  not  come  here  more  than  twice  in  the  week, 
Or  talk  to  me  either  at  party  or  ball, 
But  always  be  ready  to  come  when  I  call ; 
So  don't  prose  to  me  about  duty  and  stuff, 
If  we  don't  break  this  off,  there  will  be  time  enough 
For  that  sort  of  thing ;  but  the  bargain  must  be 
That,  as  long  as  I  choose,  I  am  perfectly  free — • 
For  this  is  a  kind  of  engagement,  you  see, 
Which  is  binding  on  you,  but  not  binding  on  me." 

Well,  having  thus  wooed  Miss  M'Flimsey  and  gained  her, 
With  the  silks,  crinolines,  and  hoops  that  contained  her, 
I  had,  as  I  thought,  a  contingent  remainder 

[351] 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1903 

At  least  in  the  property,  and  the  best  right 

To  appear  as  its  escort  by  day  and  by  night ; 

And  it  being  the  week  of  the  Stuckup's  grand  ball— 

Their  cards  had  been  out  for  a  fortnight  or  so,, 

And  set  all  the  Avenue  on  the  tiptoe — 
I  considered  it  only  my  duty  to  call, 

And  see  if  Miss  Flora  intended  to  go. 
I  found  her — as  ladies  are  apt  to  be  found, 
When  the  time  intervening  between  the  first  sound 
Of  the  bell  and  the  visitor's  entry  is  shorter 
Than  usual — I  found;  I  won't  say  I  caught  her — 
Intent  on  the  pier-glass,  undoubtedly  meaning 
To  see  if  perhaps  it  did  n't  need  cleaning. 
She  turned  as  I  entered — "Why,  Harry,  you  sinner, 
I  thought  that  you  went  to  the  Flashers'  to  dinner !" 
"So  I  did,"  I  replied,  "but  the  dinner  is  swallowed, 

And  digested,  I  trust,  for  't  is  now  nine  and  more, 
So,  being  relieved  from  that  duty,  I  followed 

Inclination,  which  led  me,  you  see,  to  your  door; 
And  now  will  your  ladyship  so  condescend 
As  just  to  inform  me  if  you  intend 
Your  beauty,  and  graces,  and  presence  to  lend 
(All  of  which,  when  I  own,  I  hope  no  one  will  borrow) 
To  the  Stuckup's,  whose  party,  you  know,  is  to-morrow?" 
The  fair  Flora  looked  up,  with  a  pitiful  air, 
And  answered  quite  promptly,  "Why,  Harry,  mon  cher, 
I  should  like  above  all  things  to  go  with  you  there, 
But  really  and  truly — I  've  nothing  to  wear." 
"Nothing  to  wear!  go  just  as  you  are; 

[  358  ] 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 

Wear  the  dress  you  have  on,  and  you  '11  be  by  far, 
I  engage,  the  most  bright  and  particular  star 

On  the  Stuckup  horizon — "  I  stopped,  for  her  eye, 
Notwithstanding  this  delicate  onset  of  flattery, 
Opened  on  me  at  once  a  terrible  battery 

Of  scorn  and  amazement.     She  made  no  reply, 
But  gave  a  slight  turn  to  the  end  of  her  nose — 

That  pure  Grecian  feature — as  much  as  to  say, 
"How  absurd  that  any  sane  man  should  suppose 
That  a  lady  would  go  to  a  ball  in  the  clothes, 

No  matter  how  fine,  that  she  wears  every  day !" 
So  I  ventured  again:  "Wear  your  crimson  brocade"- 
(Second  turn  up  of  nose) — "That 's  too  dark  by  a  shade." 
"Your  blue  silk" — "That  's  too  heavy."     "Your  pink" — 

"That 's  too  light." 

"Wear  tulle  over  satin"-  -"I  can't  endure  white." 
"Your  rose-colored,  then,  the  best  of  the  batch" — 
"I  have  n't  a  thread  of  point  lace  to  match." 
"Your    brown    moire    antique" — "Yes,    and    look   like    a 

Quaker." 

"The  pearl-colored" — "I  would,  but  that  plaguy  dress 
maker 

Has  had  it  a  week."     "Then  that  exquisite  lilac, 
In  which  you  would  melt  the  heart  of  a  Shylock" — 
(Here  the  nose  took  again  the  same  elevation)  — 
"I  would  n't  wear  that  for  the  whole  of  creation." 
"Why  not?     It  's  my  fancy,  there  's  nothing  could  strike  it 

As  more  comme  il  faut" — "Yes,  but,  dear  me,  that  lean 
Sophronia  Stuckup  has  got  one  just  like  it, 


[353 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 

And  I  won't  appear  dressed  like  a  chit  of  sixteen." 
"Then  that  splendid  purple,  that  sweet  Mazarine; 
That  superb  point  d'aigmlle,  that  imperial  green, 
That  zephyr-like  tarletan,  that  rich  grenadine" — 
"Not  one  of  all  which  is  fit  to  be  seen," 
Said  the  lady,  becoming  excited  and  flushed. 
"Then  wear,"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  which  quite  crushed 

Opposition,  "that  gorgeous  toilette  which  you  sported 
In  Paris  last  spring,  at  the  grand  presentation, 
When  you  quite  turned  the  head  of  the  head  of  the  nation, 

And  by  all  the  grand  court  were  so  very  much  courted." 

The  end  of  the  nose  was  portentously  tipped  up, 
And  both  the  bright  eyes  shot  forth  indignation, 
As  she  burst  upon  me  with  the  fierce  exclamation, 
"I  have  worn  it  three  times,  at  the  least  calculation, 

And  that  and  most  of  my  dresses  are  ripped  up !" 
Here  I  ripped  out  something,  perhaps  rather  rash, 

Quite  innocent,  though ;  but,  to  use  an  expression 
More  striking  than  classic,  it  "settled  my  hash," 

And  proved  very  soon  the  last  act  of  our  session. 
"Fiddlesticks,  is  it,  sir?     I  wonder  the  ceiling 
Does  n't    fall    down   and   crush   you — you   men   have   no 

feeling; 

You  selfish,  unnatural,  illiberal  creatures, 
Who  set  yourselves  up  as  patterns  and  preachers, 
Your  silly  pretence — why,  what  a  mere  guess  it  is ! 
Pray,  what  do  you  know  of  a  woman's  necessities  ? 
I  have  told  you  and  shown  you  I  Ve  nothing  to  wear, 
And  it  's  perfectly  plain  you  not  only  don't  care, 


354 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 

But  you  do  not  believe  me" — (here  the  nose  went  still 

higher) — 

"I  suppose,  if  you  dared,  you  would  call  me  a  liar. 
Our  engagement  is  ended,  sir — yes,  on  the  spot ; 
You  're  a  brute,  and  a  monster,  and — I  don't  know  what." 
I  mildly  suggested  the  words  Hottentot, 
Pickpocket,  and  cannibal,  Tartar,  and  thief, 
As  gentle  expletives  which  might  give  relief; 
But  this  only  proved  as  a  spark  to  the  powder, 
And  the  storm  I  had  raised  came  faster  and  louder ; 
It  blew  and  it  rained,  thundered,  lightened,  and  hailed 
Interjections,  verbs,  pronouns,  till  language  quite  failed 
To  express  the  abusive,  and  then  its  arrears 
Were  brought  up  all  at  once  by  a  torrent  of  tears, 
And  my  last  faint,  despairing  attempt  at  an  obs- 
Ervation  was  lost  in  a  tempest  of  sobs. 

Well,  I  felt  for  the  lady,  and  felt  for  my  hat,  too, 

Improvised  on  the  crown  of  the  latter  a  tattoo, 

In  lieu  of  expressing  the  feelings  which  lay 

Quite  too  deep  for  words,  as  Wordsworth  would  say ; 

Then,  without  going  through  the  form  of  a  bow, 

Found  myself  in  the  entry — I  hardly  knew  how, 

On  door-step  and  sidewalk,  past  lamp-post  and  square, 

At  home  and  up-stairs,  in  my  own  easy-chair ; 

Poked  my  feet  into  slippers,  my  fire  into  blaze, 
And  said  to  myself,  as  I  lit  my  cigar, 
"Supposing  a  man  had  the  wealth  of  the  Czar 

Of  the  Russias  to  boot,  for  the  rest  of  his  days, 


355] 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 

On  the  whole,,  do  you  think  he  would  have  much  to  spare, 
If  he  married  a  woman  with  nothing  to  wear?" 

Since  that  night,  taking  pains  that  it  should  not  be  bruited 

Abroad  in  society,  I  Ve  instituted 

A  course  of  inquiry,  extensive  and  thorough, 

On  this  vital  subject,  and  find,  to  my  horror, 

That  the  fair  Flora's  case  is  by  no  means  surprising, 

But  that  there  exists  the  greatest  distress 
In  our  female  community,  solely  arising 

From  this  unsupplied  destitution  of  dress, 
Whose  unfortunate  victims  are  filling  the  air 
With  the  pitiful  wrail  of  "Nothing  to  wear." 
Researches  in  some  of  the  "Upper  Ten"  districts 
Reveal  the  most  painful  and  startling  statistics, 
Of  which  let  me  mention  only  a  few: 
In  one  single  house,  on  the  Fifth  Avenue, 
Three  young  ladies  were  found,  all  below  twenty-two, 
Who  have  been  three  whole  weeks  without  anything  new 
In  the  way  of  flounced  silks,  and  thus  left  in  the  lurch 
Are  unable  to  go  to  ball,  concert,  or  church. 
In  another  large  mansion,  near  the  same  place, 
Was  found  a  deplorable,  heart-rending  case 
Of  entire  destitution  of  Brussels  point-lace. 
In  a  neighboring  block  there  was  found,  in  three  calls, 
Total  want,  long  continued,  of  camel's-hair  shawls ; 
And  a  suffering  family,  whose  case  exhibits 
The  most  pressing  need  of  real  ermine  tippets; 
One  deserving  young  lady  almost  unable 


356 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 

To  survive  for  the  want  of  a  new  Russian  sable; 
Still  another,  whose  tortures  have  been  most  terrific 
Ever  since  the  sad  loss  of  the  steamer  Pacific, 
In  which  were  engulfed,  not  friend  or  relation 
(For  whose  fate  she  perhaps  might  have  found  consola 
tion, 

Or  borne  it,  at  least,  with  serene  resignation), 
But  the  choicest  assortment  of  French  sleeves  and  collars 
Ever  sent  out  from  Paris,  worth  thousands  of  dollars, 
And  all  as  to  style  most  recherche  and  rare, 
The  want  of  which  leaves  her  with  nothing  to  wear, 
And  renders  her  life  so  drear  and  dyspeptic 
That  she  's  quite  a  recluse,  and  almost  a  sceptic, 
For  she  touchingly  says  that  this  sort  of  grief 
Cannot  find  in  Religion  the  slightest  relief, 
And  Philosophy  has  not  a  maxim  to  spare 
For  victims  of  such  overwhelming  despair. 
But  the  saddest,  by  far,  of  all  these  sad  features 
Is  the  cruelty  practised  upon  the  poor  creatures 
By  husbands  and  fathers,  real  Bluebeards  and  Timons, 
Who  resist  the  most  touching  appeals  made  for  diamonds 
By  their  wives  and  their  daughters,  and  leave  them  for 

days 

Unsupplied  with  new  jewelry,  fans,  or  bouquets, 
Even    laugh    at    their    miseries    whenever    they    have    a 

chance, 

And  deride  their  demands  as  useless  extravagance. 
One  case  of  a  bride  was  brought  to  my  view, 
Too  sad  for  belief,  but,  alas !  't  was  too  true, 


[351 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 

Whose  husband  refused,,  as  savage  as  Charon,, 

To  permit  her  to  take  more  than  ten  trunks  to  Sharon. 

The  consequence  was,,  that  when  she  got  there, 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  she  had  nothing  to  wear, 

And  wrhen  she  proposed  to  finish  the  season 

At  Newport.,  the  monster  refused.,  out  and  out, 

For  his  infamous  conduct  alleging  no  reason, 

Except  that  the  waters  were  good  for  his  gout; 

Such  treatment  as  this  was  too  shocking,  of  course, 

And  proceedings  are  now  going  on  for  divorce. 

But  why  harrow  the  feelings  by  lifting  the  curtain 
From  these  scenes  of  woe?     Enough,  it  is  certain, 
Has  here  been  disposed  to  stir  up  the  pity 
Of  every  benevolent  heart  in  the  city, 
And  spur  up  Humanity  into  a  canter 
To  rush  and  relieve  these  sad  cases  instanter. 
Won't  somebody,  moved  by  this  touching  description, 
Come  forward  to-morrow  and  head  a  subscription? 
Won't  some  kind  philanthropist,  seeing  that  aid  is 
So  needed  at  once  by  these  indigent  ladies, 
Take  charge  of  the  matter?     Or  won't  Peter  Cooper 
The  corner-stone  lay  of  some  new  splendid  super- 
Structure,  like  that  which  to-day  links  his  name 
In  the  Union  unending  of  Honor  and  Fame, 
And  found  a  new  charity  just  for  the  care 
Of  these  unhappy  women  with  nothing  to  wear, 
Which,  in  view  of  the  cash  which  would  daily  be  claimed, 
The  Laying-out  Hospital  well  might  be  named? 
Won't  Stewart,  or  some  of  our  dry-goods  importers, 


358 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 

Take  a  contract  for  clothing  our  wives  and  our  daughters  ? 

Or,  to  furnish  the  cash  we  supply  these  distresses, 

And    life's    pathway    strew    with    shawls,    collars,    and 

dresses, 

For  poor  womankind,  won't  some  venturesome  lover 
A  new  California  somewhere  discover? 

O  ladies,  dear  ladies,  the  next  sunny  day 
Please  trundle  your  hoops  just  out  of  Broadway, 
From  its  whirl  and  its  bustle,  its  fashion  and  pride, 
And  the  temples  of  Trade  which  tower  on  each  side, 
To  the  alleys  and  lanes,  where  Misfortune  and  Guilt 
Their  children  have  gathered,  their  city  have  built; 
Where  Hunger  and  Vice,  like  twin  beasts  of  prey, 

Have  hunted  their  victims  to  gloom  and  despair ; 
Raise  the  rich,  dainty  dress,  and  the  fine  broidered  skirt, 
Pick  your  delicate  way  through  the  dampness  and  dirt, 

Grope  through  the  dark  dens,  climb  the  rickety  stair 
To  the  garret,  where  wretches,  the  young  and  the  old, 
Half  starved  and  half  naked,  lie  crouched  from  the  cold; 
See  those  skeleton  limbs,  those  frost-bitten  feet, 
All  bleeding  and  bruised  by  the  stones  of  the  street; 
Hear  the  sharp  cry  of  childhood,  the  deep  groans  that 
swell 

From  the  poor  dying  creature  who  writhes  on  the  floor ; 
Hear  the  curses  that  sound  like  the  echoes  of  Hell, 

As  you  sicken  and  shudder  and  fly  from  the  door; 
Then  home  to  your  wardrobes,  and  say,  if  you  dare — 
Spoiled  children  of  fashion — you  've  nothing  to  wear ! 


[359 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER     1825-1902 


And  O,  if  perchance  there  should  be  a  sphere 
Where  all  is  made  right  which  so  puzzles  us  here, 
Where  the  glare  and  the  glitter  and  tinsel  of  Time 
Fade  and  die  in  the  light  of  that  region  sublime, 
Where  the  soul,  disenchanted  of  flesh  and  of  sense, 
Unscreened  by  its  trappings  and  shows  and  pretence, 
Must  be  clothed  for  the  life  and  the  service  above, 
With  purity,  truth,  faith,  meekness,  and  love, 
O  daughters  of  Earth !  foolish  virgins,  beware ! 
Lest  in  that  upper  realm  you  have  nothing  to  wear ! 


[860] 


JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER     1825-1896 


The  Fight  at  the  San  Jacinto 

"Now  for  a  brisk  and  cheerful  fight !" 

Said  Harman,  big  and  droll, 
As  he  coaxed  his  flint  and  steel  for  a  light, 

And  puffed  at  his  cold  clay  bowl; 
"For  we  are  a  skulking  lot,"  says  he, 

"Of  land-thieves  hereabout, 
And  these  bold  senors,  two  to  one, 

Have  come  to  smoke  us  out." 

Santa  Anna  and  Castillon, 

Almonte  brave  and  gay, 
Portilla  red  from  Goliad, 

And  Cos  with  his  smart  array. 
Dulces  and  cigaritos, 

And  the  light  guitar,  ting-turn ! 
Sant'  Anna  courts  siesta, 

And  Sam  Houston  taps  his  drum. 

The  buck  stands  still  in  the  timber — 

"Is  it  patter  of  nuts  that  fall?" 
The  foal  of  the  wild  mare  whinnies — 

Did  he  hear  the  Comanche  call? 
In  the  brake  by  the  crawling  bayou 

The  slinking  she-wolves  howl ; 
And  the  mustang's  snort  in  the  river  sedge 

Has  startled  the  paddling  fowl. 


[361} 


JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER     1825-1896 


A  soft,  low  tap,  and  a  muffled  tap, 

And  a  roll  not  loud  nor  long — 
We  would  not  break  Sant'  Anna's  nap, 

Nor  spoil  Almonte's  song. 
Saddles  and  knives  and  rifles  ! 

Lord !  but  the  men  were  glad 
When  Deaf  Smith  muttered  "Alamo!" 

And  Karnes  hissed  "Goliad !" 

The  drummer  tucked  his  sticks  in  his  belt, 

And  the  fifer  gripped  his  gun. 
Oh,  for  one  free,  wild,  Texan  yell, 

As  we  took  the  slope  in  a  run ! 
But  never  a  shout  nor  a  shot  we  spent, 

Nor  an  oath  nor  a  prayer,  that  day, 
Till  wre  faced  the  bravos,  eye  to  eye, 

And  then  we  blazed  away. 

Then  we  knew  the  rapture  of  Ben  Milam, 

And  the  glory  that  Travis  made, 
With  Bowie's  lunge,  and  Crockett's  shot, 

And  Fannin's  dancing  blade; 
And  the  heart  of  the  fighter,  bounding  free 

In  his  joy  so  hot  and  mad — 
When  Millard  charged  for  Alamo, 

Lamar  for  Goliad. 


362 


JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER     1825-1896 


Deaf  Smith  rode  straight,  with  reeking  spur, 

Into  the  shock  and  rout : 
"I  've  hacked  and  burned  the  bayou  bridge; 

There  's  no  sneak's  back-way  out !" 
Muzzle  or  butt  for  Goliad, 

Pistol  and  blade  and  fist ! 
Oh,  for  the  knife  that  never  glanced, 

And  the  gun  that  never  missed ! 

Dulces  and  cigaritos, 

Song  and  the  mandolin! 
That  gory  swamp  is  a  gruesome  grove 

To  dance  fandangoes  in. 
We  bridged  the  bog  with  the  sprawling  herd 

That  fell  in  that  frantic  rout; 
We  slew  and  slew  till  the  sun  set  red, 

And  the  Texan  star  flashed  out. 


[363] 


JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER     1825-] 


Stonewall  Jackson's  Way 

Come,  stack  arms,  men;  pile  on  the  rails; 

Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright ! 
No  growling  if  the  canteen  fails: 

We  '11  make  a  roaring  night. 
Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 
There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes 'strong, 
To  swell  the  Brigade's  rousing  song, 

Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way. 

We  see  him  now— the  queer  slouched  hat, 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew; 
The  shrewd,  dry  smile;  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "Blue-light  Elder"  knows  'em  well- 
Says  he,  "That  's  Banks;  he  's  fond  of  shell. 

Lord  save  his  soul!  we  '11  give  him  ;"  Well 

That  's  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way. 

Silence!     Ground  arms !     Kneel  all!     Caps  off! 

Old  Marster's  going  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff: 

Attention  ! — it  's  his  way. 
Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauperis  to  God, 

"Lay  bare  Thine  arm !     Stretch  forth  Thy  rod ! 
Amen  .'"--That's  Stonewall's  Way. 


364} 


JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER     1825-1896 


He  's  in  the  saddle  now.     Fall  in ! 

Steady!  the  whole  brigade. 
Hill 's  at  the  ford,  cut  off ;  we  '11  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade. 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn? 
Quick  step  !     we  're  with  him  before  morn : 

That 's  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way. 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 
Of  morning ;  and — By  George  ! 

Here  's  Longstreet,  struggling  in  the  lists, 
Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 

Pope  and  his  Dutchmen ! — whipped  before. 

"Bay'nets  and  grape !"  hear  Stonewall  roar. 

Charge,  Stuart !     Pay  off  Ashby's  score, 
In  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way. 

Ah,  Maiden !  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 

For  news  of  Stonewall's  band. 
Ah,  Widow !  read,  with  eyes  that  burn, 

That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 
Ah^  Wife !  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on ! 
Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn. 
The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born, 

That  gets  in  Stonewall's  Way. 


365 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD     1825-1903 


The  Flight  of  Youth 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 

There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain: 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better, 

Under  manhood's   sterner  reign: 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished, 
And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain: 

We  behold  it  everywhere, 

On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 
But  it  never  comes  again. 


[366 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD     1825-1903 

Without  and  Within 
I. 

The  night  is  dark,  and  the  winter  winds 
Go  stabbing  about  with  their  icy  spears ; 
The  sharp  hail  rattles  against  the  panes, 

And  melts  on  my  cheek  like  tears. 

'T  is  a  terrible  night  to  be  out  of  doors, 

But  some  of  us  must  be,  early  and  late ; 
We  need  n't  ask  who,  for  don't  we  know 

It  has  all  been  settled  by  Fate? 

Not  woman,  but  man.     Give  woman  her  flowers, 

Her  dresses,  her  jewels,  or  what  she  demands: 
The  work  of  the  world  must  be  done  by  man, 
Or  why  has  he  brawny  hands  ? 

As  I  feel  my  way  in  the  dark  and  cold, 

I  think  of  the  chambers  warm  and  bright, 
The  nests  where  these  delicate  birds  of  ours 
Are  folding  their  wings  to-night. 

Through  the  luminous  windows,  above  and  below, 

I  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  life  they  lead: 
Some  sew,  some  sing,  others  dress  for  the  ball, 
While  others,  fair  students,  read. 

[367] 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD     1825-1903 


There  's  the  little  lady  who  bears  my  name, 
She  sits  at  my  table  now,  pouring  her  tea ; 
Does  she  think  of  me  as  I  hurry  home, 

Hungry  and  wet?     Not  she. 

She  helps  herself  to  the  sugar  and  cream 

In  a  thoughtless,  dreamy,  nonchalant  way; 
Her  hands  are  white  as  the  virgin  rose 

That  she  wore  on  her  wedding  day. 

My  clumsy  fingers  are  stained  with  ink, 

The  badge  of  the  Ledger,  the  mark  of  Trade; 
But  the  money  I  give  her  is  clean  enough, 
In  spite  of  the  way  it  is  made. 

I  wear  out  my  life  in  the  counting-room 

Over  day-book  and  cash-book,  Bought  and  Sold; 
My  brain  is  dizzy  with  anxious  thought, 
My  skin  is  as  sallow  as  gold. 

How  does  she  keep  the  roses  of  youth 

Still  fresh  in  her  cheek?     My  roses  are  flown. 
It  lies  in  a  nutshell — why  do  I  ask? 

A  woman's  life  is  her  own. 

She  gives  me  a  kiss  when  we  part  for  the  day, 

Then  goes  to  her  music,  blithe  as  a  bird ; 

She  reads  it  at  sight,  and  the  language,  too, 

Though  I  know  never  a  word. 


368 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD     1825-1903 

She  sews  a  little,  makes  collars  and  sleeves, 

Or  embroiders  me  slippers  (always  too  small,) 
Nets  silken  purses  (for  me  to  fill,) 

Often  does  nothing  at  all 

But  dream  in  her  chamber,  holding  a  flower, 

Or  reading  my  letters — she  'd  better  read  me. 
Even  now,  while  I  am  freezing  with  cold, 
She  is  cosily  sipping  her  tea. 

If  I  ever  reach  home  I  shall  laugh  aloud 

At  the  sight  of  a  roaring  fire  once  more: 
She  must  wait,  I  think,  till  I  thaw  myself, 

For  the  nightly  kiss  at  the  door. 

I  '11  have  with  my  dinner  a  bottle  of  port, 

To  warm  up  my  blood  and  soothe  my  mind ; 
Then  a  little  music,  for  even  I 

Like  music — when  I  have  dined. 

I  '11  smoke  a  pipe  in  the  easy-chair, 

And  feel  her  behind  patting  my  head; 
Or  drawing  the  little  one  on  my  knee, 
Chat  till  the  hour  for  bed. 

II 

Will  he  never  come?     I  have  watched  for  him 

Till  the  misty  panes  are  roughened  w,ith  sleet; 
I  can  see  no  more :  shall  I  never  hear 

The  welcome  sound  of  his  feet? 


[869] 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD     1825-1903 


I  think  of  him  in  the  lonesome  night, 

Tramping  along  with  a  weary  tread, 
And  wish  he  were  here  by  the  cheery  fire, 
Or  I  were  there  in  his  stead. 

I  sit  by  the  grate,  and  hark  for  his  step, 

And  stare  in  the  fire  with  a  troubled  mind ; 
The  glow  of  the  coals  is  bright  in  my  face, 
But  my  shadow  is  dark  behind. 

I  think  of  woman,  and  think  of  man, 

The  tie  that  binds  and  the  wrongs  that  part, 
And  long  to  utter  in  burning  words 

What  I  feel  to-night  in  my  heart. 

No  weak  complaint  of  the  man  I  love, 

No  praise  of  myself,  or  my  sisterhood ; 
But — something  that  women  understand — 
By  men  never  understood. 

Their  natures  jar  in  a  thousand  things; 

Little  matter,  alas,  who  is  right  or  wrong, 
She  goes  to  the  wall.     "She  is  weak,"  they  say- 
It  is  that  which  makes  them  strong. 

Wherein  am  I  weaker  than  Arthur,  pray? 
He  has,  as  he  should,  a  sturdier  frame, 
And  he  labors  early  and  late  for  me, 

But  I — I  could  do  the  same. 


[370] 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD     1825-1903 


My  hands  are  willing,,  my  brain  is  clear, 

The  world  is  wide,  and  the  workers  few ; 
But  the  work  of  the  world  belongs  to  man, 

There  is  nothing  for  woman  to  do ! 

Yes,  she  has  the  holy  duties  of  home, 

A  husband  to  love,  and  children  to  bear, 
The  softer  virtues,  the  social  arts, — 

In  short,  a  life  without  care ! 

So  our  masters  say.     But  what  do  they  know 

Of  our  lives  and  feelings  when  they  are  away? 
Our  household  duties,  our  petty  tasks, 

The  nothings  that  waste  the  day? 

Nay,  what  do  they  care?     'T  is  enough  for  them 
That  their  homes   are  pleasant;  they  seek  their 

ease: 
One  takes  a  wife  to  flatter  his  pride, 

Another  to  keep  his  keys. 

They  say  they  love  us ;  perhaps  they  do, 

In  a  masculine  way,  as  they  love  their  wine: 
But  the  soul  of  woman  needs  something  more, 
Or  it  suffers  at  times  like  mine. 

Not  that  Arthur  is  ever  unkind 

In  word  or  deed,  for  he  loves  me  well ; 
But  I  fear  he  thinks  me  as  weak  as  the  rest — 
(And  I  may  be,  who  can  tell?) 


[371 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD     1825-1903 


I  should  die  if  he  changed,  or  loved  me  less, 

For  I  live  at  best  but  a  restless  life; 
Yet  he  may,  for  they  say  the  kindest  men 
Grow  tired  of  a  sickly  wife. 

O,  love  me,  Arthur,  my  lord,  my  life, 

If  not  for  my  love,  and  my  womanly  fears, 
At  least  for  your  child.     But  I  hear  his  step- 
He  must  not  find  me  in  tears. 


A  Woman's  Poem 

You  say  you  love  me,  and  you  lay 

Your  hand  and  fortune  at  my  feet: 
I  thank  you,  sir,  with  all  my  heart, 
For  love  is  sweet. 

It  is  but  little  to  you  men, 

To  whom  the  doors  of  Life  stand  wide; 
But  much,  how  much  to  woman !     She 
Has  naught  beside. 

You  make  the  worlds  wherein  you  move, 

You  rule  your  tastes,  or  coarse,  or  fine; 
Dine,  hunt,  or  fish,  or  waste  your  gold 
At  dice  and  wine. 


?2  ] 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD     1825-1903 


Our  world   (alas,  you  make  that,  too!) 

Is  narrower,  shut  in  four  blank  walls: 
Know  you,,  or  care,  what  light  is  there? 
What  shadow  falls  ? 

We  read  the  last  new  novel  out, 

And  live  in  dream-land  till  it  ends : 
We  write  romantic  school-girl  notes, 

That  bore  our  friends. 

We  learn  to  trill  Italian  songs, 

And  thrum  for  hours  the  tortured  keys: 
We  think  it  pleases  you,  and  we 

But  live  to  please. 

We  feed  our  birds,  we  tend  our  flowers, 

(Poor  in-door  things  of  sickly  bloom,) 
Or  play  the  housewife  in  our  gloves, 
And  dust  the  room. 

But  some  of  us  have  hearts  and  minds, 

So  much  the  worse  for  us  and  you ; 
For  grant  we  seek  a  better  life, 

What  can  we  do  ? 

We  cannot  build  and  sail  your  ships, 

Or  drive  your  engines ;  we  are  weak, 
And  ignorant  of  the  tricks  of  Trade. 
To  think,  and  speak, 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD     1825-1903 


Or  write  some  earnest,,  stammering  words 

Alone  is  ours,  and  that  you  hate; 
So  forced  within  ourselves  again 

We  sigh  and  wait. 

Ah,  who  can  tell  the  bitter  hours, 

The  dreary  days,  that  women  spend? 
Their  thoughts  unshared,  their  lives  unknown, 
Without  a  friend! 

Without  a  friend?     And  what  is  he, 

Who,  like  a  shadow,  day  and  night, 
Follows  the  woman  he  prefers — 

Lives  in  her  sight? 

Her  lover,  he:  a  gallant  man, 
Devoted  to  her  every  whim; 
He  vows    to  die  for  her,  so  she 

Must  live  for  him ! 

We  should  be  very  grateful,  sir, 

That,  when  you  Ve  nothing  else  to  do, 
You  waste  your  idle  hours  on  us — 
So  kind  of  you  ! 

Profuse  in  studied  compliments, 

Your  manners  like  your  clothes  are  fine, 
Though  both  at  times  are  somewhat  strong 
Of  smoke  and  wine. 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD     1825-1903 


What  can  we  hope  to  know  of  you? 
Or  you  of  us?     We  act  our  parts: 
We  love  in  jest:  it  is  the  play 

Of  hands,  not  hearts  ! 


You  grant  my  bitter  words  are  true 

Of  others.,  not  of  you  and  me; 
Your  love  is  steady  as  a  star: 

But  we  shall  see. 

You  say  you  love  me :  have  you  thought 
How  much  those  little  words  contain  ? 
Alas,  a  world  of  happiness,, 

And  worlds  of  pain! 

You  know,  or  should,  your  nature  now, 

Its  needs  and  passions.     Can  I  be 
What  you  desire  me  ?     Do  you  find 
Your  all  in  me? 

You  do.     But  have  you  thought  that  I 

May  have  my  ways  and  fancies,  too? 
You  love  me  well ;  but  have  you  thought 
I  f  I  love  you  ? 

But  think  again.     You  know  me  not : 

I,  too,  may  be  a  butterfly, 
A  costly  parlor  doll  on  show 

For  vou  to  buy. 


[375 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD     1825-1903 

You  trust  me  wholly?     One  word  more. 
You  see  me  young:  they  call  me  fair: 
I  think  I  have  a  pleasant  face, 
And  pretty  hair. 

But  by  and  by  my  face  will  fade, 

It  must  with  time,  it  may  with  care: 
What  say  you  to  a  wrinkled  wife, 

With  thin,  gray  hair? 

You  care  not,  you:  in  youth,  or  age, 

Your  heart  is  mine,  while  life  endures. 
Is  it  so  ?     Then,  Arthur,  here  's  my  hand, 
My  heart  is  yours. 


LUCY  LARCOM     1826-1893 


Hannah  Binding  Shoes 

Poor  lone  Hannah, 
Sitting  at  the  window,  binding  shoes : 

Faded,  wrinkled, 

Sitting,  stitching,  in  a  mournful  muse. 
Bright-eyed  beauty  once  was  she, 
When  the  bloom  was  on  the  tree: 

Spring  and  winter, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Not  a  neighbor, 
Passing  nod  or  answer  will  refuse, 

To  her  whisper, 

"Is  there  from  the  fishers  any  news?" 
Oh,  her  heart  's  adrift,  with  one 
On  an  endless  voyage  gone ! 

Night  and  morning, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Fair  young  Hannah, 
Ben,  the  sunburnt  fisher,  gayly  WTOOS  : 

Hale  and  clever, 

For  a  willing  heart  and  hand  he  sues. 
May-day  skies  are  all  aglow, 
And  the  waves  are  laughing  so ! 

For  her  wedding 
Hannah  leaves  her  window  and  her  shoes. 


LUCY  LARCOM     1826-1893 


May  is  passing: 
'Mid  the  apple  boughs  a  pigeon  cooes. 

Hannah  shudders, 

For  the  mild  southwester  mischief  brews. 
Round  the  rocks  of  Marblehead, 
Outward  bound,,  a  schooner  sped: 

Silent,  lonesome 
Hannah  's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

'T  is  November, 
Now  no  tear  her  wasted  cheek  bedews. 

From  Newfoundland 
Not  a  sail  returning  will  she  lose, 
Whispering  hoarsely,  "Fishermen, 
Have  you,  have  you  heard  of  Ben?" 

Old  with  watching, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Twenty  winters 
Bleach  and  tear  the  ragged  shore  she  views. 

Twenty  seasons : — 
Never  one  has  brought  her  any  news. 
Still  her  dim  eyes  silently 
Chase  the  white  sails  o'er  the  sea: 

Hopeless,  faithful, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 


[378] 


ROBERT  BARRY  COFFIN     1826-1888 

Ships  at  Sea 

I  have  ships  that  went  to  sea 

More  than  fifty  years  ago ; 
None  have  yet  come  home  to  me, 

But  are  sailing  to  and  fro. 
I  have  seen  them  in  my  sleep,, 
Plunging  through  the  shoreless  deep, 
With  tattered  sails  and  battered  hulls, 
While  around  them  screamed  the  gulls, 
Flying  low,  flying  low. 

I  have  wondered  why  they  stayed 
From  me,  sailing  round  the  world; 

And  I  Ve  said,  "I  'm  half  afraid 

That  their   sails   will   ne'er  be   furled." 

Great  the  treasures  that  they  hold, 

Silks,  and  plumes,  and  bars  of  gold; 

While  the  spices  which  they  bear 

Fill  with  fragrance  all  the  air, 
As  they  sail,  as  they  sail. 

Ah !  each  sailor  in  the  port 

Knows  that  I  have  ships  at  sea, 

Of  the  waves  and  winds  the  sport, 
And  the  sailors  pity  me. 

Oft  they  come  and  with  me  walk, 

Cheering  me  with  hopeful  talk, 

Till  I  put  my  fears  aside, 

And,  contented,  watch  the  tide 
Rise  and  fall,  rise  and  fall. 

[  379  ] 


ROBERT  BARRY  COFFIN     1826-1888 

I  have  waited  on  the  piers, 

Gazing  for  them  down  the  bay, 
Days  and  nights  for  many  years, 
Till  I  turned  heart-sick  away. 
But  the  pilots,  when  they  land, 
Stop  and  take  me  by  the  hand, 
Saying,  "You  will  live  to  see 
Your  proud  vessels  come  from  sea, 
One  and  all,  one  and  all." 

So  I  never  quite  despair, 

Nor  let  hope  or  courage  fail; 
And  some  day,  when  skies  are  fair, 

Up  the  bay  my  ships  will  sail. 
I  shall  buy  then  all  I  need, — 
Prints  to  look  at,  books  to  read, 
Horses,  wines,  and  works  of  art, — 
Everything  except  a  heart. 
That  is  lost,  that  is  lost. 

Once  when  I  was  pure  and  young, 

Richer,  too,  than  I  am  now, 
Ere  a  cloud  was  o'er  me  flung, 

Or  a  wrinkle  creased  my  brow, 
There  was  one  whose  heart  was  mine; 
But  she  's  something  now  divine, 
And  though  come  my  ships  from  sea, 
They  can  bring  no  heart  to  me 
Evermore,  evermore. 


WILLIAM  HAINES  LYTLE     1826-1863 


Antony  and  Cleopatra 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying! 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast, 
And  the  dark  Plutonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast; 
Let  thine  arm,  O  Queen,  enfold  me, 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear, 
Listen  to  the  great  heart  secrets 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 

Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more, 
And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore; 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  me, 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  Roman, 

Die  the  great  Triumvir  still. 

Let  not  Caesar's  servile  minions 

Mock  the  lion  thus  laid  low ; 
'T  was  no  foeman's  arm  that  felled  him, 

'T  was  his  own  that  struck  the  blow: 
His  who,  pillowred  on  thy  bosom, 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray — 
His  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 

Madly  threw  the  world  away. 


WILLIAM  HAINES  LYTLE     1826-1863 

Should  the  base  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  name  at  Rome, 
Where  the  noble  spouse  Octavia 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home,, 
Seek  her;  say  the  gods  bear  witness, — 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings, — 
That  her  blood,  with  mine  commingled, 

Yet  shall  mount  the  throne  of  kings. 

And  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian — 

Glorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile ! 
Light  the  patli  to  Stygian  horrors, 

With  the  splendor  of  thy  smile; 
Give  the  Caesar  crowns  and  arches, 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine: 
I  can  scorn  the  senate's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying! 

Hark  !  the  insulting  f  oeman's  cry ; 
They  are  coming — quick,  my  falchion ! 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah,  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell; 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee — 

Cleopatra — Rome — farewell ! 


ETHELINDA  (ELIOT)   BEERS     1827-1879 


All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac 

"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac/'  they  say, 

"Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'T  is  nothing — a  private  or  two  now  and  then 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle; 
Not  an  officer  lost — only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming ; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fire,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh  of  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard,  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There  's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack;  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 

For  their  mother ;  may  Heaven  defend  her ! 


ETHELINDA  (ELIOT)   BEERS     1827-1879 


The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then,, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips — when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree, 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shade  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  ....  "Ha  !     Mary,  good-bye !' 

The  red  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night; 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead — 

The  picket 's  off  duty  forever ! 


[384 


ROSE  (TERRY)  COOKE     1827-1892 


The  Two  Villages 

Over  the  river,  on  the  hill, 
Lieth  a  village  white  and  still; 
All  around  it  the  forest-trees 
Shiver  and  whisper  in  the  breeze; 
Over  it  sailing  shadows  go 
Of  soaring  hawk  and  screaming  crow, 
And  mountain  grasses,  low  and  sweet, 
Grow  in  the  middle  of  every  street. 

Over  the  river,  under  the  hill, 
Another  village  lieth  still; 
There  I  see  in  the  cloudy  night 
Twinkling  stars  of  household  light, 
Fires  that  gleam  from  the  smithy's  door, 
Mists  that  curl  on  the  river-shore ; 
And  in  the  roads  no  grasses  grow, 
For  the  wheels  that  hasten  to  and  fro. 

In  that  village  on  the  hill 

Never  is  sound  of  smithy  or  mill ; 

The  houses  are  thatched  with  grass  and  flowers ; 

Never  a  clock  to  toll  the  hours; 

The  marble  doors  are  always  shut, 

You  cannot  enter  in  hall  or  hut; 

All  the  villagers  lie  asleep ; 

Never  a  grain  to  sow  or  reap; 

Never  in  dreams  to  moan  or  sigh; 

Silent  and  idle  and  low  they  lie. 


ROSE  (TERRY)  COOKE     1827-1892 


In  that  village  under  the  hill, 
When  the  night  is  starry  and  still, 
Many  a  weary  soul  in  prayer 
Looks  to  the  other  village  there, 
And  weeping  and  sighing,  longs  to  go 
Up  to  that  home  from  this  below ; 
Longs  to  sleep  in  the  forest  wild, 
Whither  have  vanished  wife  and  child, 
And  heareth,  praying,  this  answer  fall: 
"Patience!  that  village  shall  hold  ye  all!" 


386 


GUY  HUMPHREYS  McMASTER     1829-1887 

Carmen  Bellicosum 

In  their  ragged  regimentals, 
Stood  the  old  Continentals,, 

Yielding  not, 

While  the  grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 
Cannon-shot ; 
When  the  files 
Of  the  isles, 

From  the  smoky  night-encampment,  bore  the  banner  of 
the  rampant 

Unicorn ; 

And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer,  rolled  the  roll  of  the 
drummer 

Through  the  morn ! 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  with  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires; 

While  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly 
Blazed  the  fires: 
As  the  roar 
On  the  shore 

Swept  the  strong  battle-breakers  o'er  the  green-sodded 
acres 

Of  the  plain; 

And  louder,  louder,  louder,  cracked  the  black  gunpowder, 
Cracking  amain ! 

[387] 


GUY  HUMPHREYS  McMASTER     1829-1887 


Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  St.  George's 

Cannoneers, 

And  the  villainous  saltpetre 
Rang  a  fierce,,  discordant  metre 

Round  our  ears: 

As  the  swift 

Storm-drift,, 
With  hot  sweeping  anger,  came  the  horse-guards'  clangor 

On  our  flanks. 
Then  higher,  higher,  higher,  burned  the  old-fashioned  fire 

Through  the  ranks ! 

Then  the  bare-headed  Colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder-cloud ; 

And  his  broadsword  was  swinging, 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 
Trumpet-loud ; 
Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 
And  the  trooper-j  ackets  redden  at  the  touch  of  the  leaden 

Rifle-breath; 

And    rounder,    rounder,    rounder,    roared    the    iron    six- 
pounder, 

Hurling  death ! 


[  388  ] 


CHARLES  GRAHAM  HALPINE     1829-1868 


The  Thousand  and  Thirty -Seven 

Three  years  ago,  to-day, 

We  raised  our  hands  to  Heaven, 
And,  on  the  rolls  of  muster, 

Our  names  were  thirty-seven; 
There  were  just  a  thousand  bayonets, 

And  the  swords  were  thirty-seven, 
As  we  took  our  oath  of  service 

With  our  right  hands  raised  to  Heaven. 

Oh,  't  was  a  gallant  day, 

In  memory  still  adored. 
That  day  of  our  sun-bright  nuptials 

With  the  musket  and  the  sword ! 
Shrill  rang  the  fifes,  the  bugles  blared, 

And  beneath  a  cloudless  heaven 
Far  flashed  a  thousand  bayonets, 

And  the  swords  were  thirty-seven. 

Of  the  thousand  stalwart  bayonets 

Two  hundred  march  to-day; 
Hundreds  lie  in  Virginia  swamps, 

And  hundreds  in  Maryland  clay; 
While  other  hundreds — less  happy — drag 

Their  mangled  limbs  around, 
And  envy  the  deep,  calm,  blessed  sleep 

Of  the  battle-field's  holy  ground. 


CHARLES  GRAHAM  H ALPINE     1829-1868 


For  the  swords — one  night  a  week  ago, 

The  remnant,  just  eleven — 
Gathered  around  a  banqueting-board 

With  seats  for  thirty-seven. 
There  were  two  came  in  on  crutches, 

And  two  had  each  but  a  hand, 
To  pour  the  wine  and  raise  the  cup 

As  we  toasted  "Our  Flag  and  Land !" 

And  the  room  seemed  filled  with  whispers 

As  we  looked  at  the  vacant  seats, 
And  with  choking  throats  we  pushed  aside 

The  rich  but  untasted  meats ; 
Then  in  silence  we  brimmed  our  glasses 

As  we  stood  up — just  eleven — 
And  bowed  as  we  drank  to  the  Loved  and  the  Dead 

Who  had  made  us  thirty-seven ! 


390  ] 


HENRY  TIMROD     1829-1867 


Charleston 

Calm  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 

The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds, 

The  City  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet,  behind  their  ramparts  stern  and  proud, 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep, 
Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 

Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 

No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scar 

To  guard  the  holy  strand ; 
But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war 

Above  the  level  sand. 

And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie  couched, 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood — 
Like  tigers  in  some  Orient  jungle  crouched 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 

Meanwhile,  through  streets  still  echoing  with  trade, 

Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men, 
Whose  hands  may  one  day  wield  the  patriot's  blade 

As  lightly  as  the  pen. 

And  maidens,  with  such  eyes  as  would  grow  dim 

Over  a  bleeding  hound, 
Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength  of  him 

Whose  sword  she  sadly  bound. 

[891] 


HENRY  TIMROD     1829-1867 


Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient  following  day, 
Old  Charleston  looks  from  roof  and  spire  and  dome, 

Across  her  tranquil  bay. 

Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon  lands 

And  spicy  Indian  ports, 
Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands, 

And  Summer  to  her  courts. 

But  still,  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line, 

The  only  hostile  smoke 
Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the  brine, 

From  some  frail,  floating  oak. 

Shall  the  Spring  dawn,  and  she  still  clad  in  smiles, 

And  with  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest  in  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm-crowned  isles, 

As  fair  and  free  as  now? 

We  know  not;  in  the  temple  of  the  Fates 

God  has  inscribed  her  doom; 
And,  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 

The  triumph  or  the  tomb. 

April,  1863. 


HENRY  TIMROD     1829-1867 


Ode 

[Sung  on  the  occasion  of  decorating  the  graves  of  the 
Confederate  dead  at  Magnolia  Cemetery,  Charleston, 
S.  C.,  1867.} 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 
Sleep,,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause; 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone ! 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 

Small  tributes !  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 

Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies ! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned ! 

[393} 


ELBRIDGE  JEFFERSON  CUTLER     1831-1870 


The  Volunteer 

"At  dawn/'  he  said,  "I  bid  them  all  farewell, 

To  go  where  bugles  call  and  rifles  gleam." 
And  with  the  restless  thought  asleep  he  fell, 
And  glided  into  dream. 

A  great  hot  plain  from  sea  to  mountain  spread, — 

Through  it  a  level  river  slowly  drawn: 
He  moved  with  a  vast  crowd,  and  at  its  head 
Streamed  banners  like  the  dawn. 

There  came  a  blinding  flash,  a  deafening  roar, 
And  dissonant  cries  of  triumph  and  dismay; 
Blood  trickled  down  the  river's  reedy  shore, 
And  with  the  dead  he  lay. 

The  morn  broke  in  upon  his  solemn  dream, 

And  still,  with  steady  pulse  and  deepening  eye, 
"Where  bugles  call,"  lie  said,  "and  rifles  gleam, 
I  follow,  though  I  die !" 


[394 


ELIZABETH   (AKERS)  ALLEN     1832-1911 


Rock  Me  to  Sleep 

Backward,  turn  backward,,  O  Time,  in  your  flight, 
Make  me  a  child  again  j  ust  for  to-night ! 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore ; 
Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care, 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my  hair ; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Backward,  flow  backward,  O  tide  of  the  years ! 
I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears, — 
Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain, — 
Take  them,  and  give  me  my  childhood  again ! 
I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay, — 
Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth  away ; 
Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue, 
Mother,  O  mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you ! 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green, 
Blossomed  and  faded,  our  faces  between: 
Yet,  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain, 
Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again. 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 


[395] 


ELIZABETH  (AKERS)  ALLEN     1832-1911 

Over  my  heart,  in  the  days  that  are  flown, 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures, — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours : 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary  brain. 
Slumber's  soft  calms  o'er  my  heavy  lids  creep; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with  gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old; 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light; 
For  with  its  sunny-edged  shadows  once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of  yore ; 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  I  last  listened  your  lullaby  song: 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream. 
Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace, 
With  your  light  lashes  j  ust  sweeping  my  face, 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 


396} 


ELIZABETH   (AKERS)  ALLEN     1832-1911 


Last 

Friend,  whose  smile  has   come  to  be 

Very  precious  unto  me, 

Though  I  know  I  drank  not  first 
Of  your  love's  bright  fountain-burst, 

Yet  I  grieve  not  for  the  past, 

So  you  only  love  me  last ! 

Other  souls  may  find  their  joy 
In  the  blind  love  of  a  boy: 

Give  me  that  which  years  have  tried, 

Disciplined  and  purified, — • 
Such  38^  braving  sun  and  blast, 
You  will  bring  to  me  at  last ! 

There  are  brows  more  fair  than  mine, 

Eyes  of  more  bewitching  shine, 
Other  hearts  more  fit,  in  truth, 
For  the  passion  of  your  youth; 

But,  their  transient  empire  past, 

You  will  surely  love  me  last! 

Wing  away  your  summer-time, 

Find  a  love  in  every  clime, 
Roam  in  liberty  and  light, — 
I  shall  never  stay  your  flight; 

For  I  know,  when  all  is  past 

You  will  come  to  me  at  last ! 


ELIZABETH  (AKERS)  ALLEN     1832-1911 

Change  and  flutter  as  you  will, 

I  shall  smile  securely  still ; 
Patiently  I  trust  and  wait 
Though  you  tarry  long  and  late; 

Prize  your  spring  till  it  be  past, 

Only,  only  love  me  last ! 


Left  Behind 

It  was  the  autumn  of  the  year! 

The  strawberry-leaves  were  red  and  sere, 

October's  airs  were  fresh  and  chill, 

When,  pausing  on  the  windy  hill, 

The  hill  that  overlooks  the  sea, 

You  talked  confidingly  to  me, — 

Me,  whom  your  keen  artistic  sight 

Has  not  yet  learned  to  read  aright, 

Since  I  have  veiled  my  heart  from  you, 

And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  told  me  of  your  toilsome  past, 

The  tardy  honors  won  at  last, 

The  trials  borne,  the  conquests  gained, 

The  longed-for  boon  of  Fame  attained: 

I  knew  that  every  victory 

But  lifted  you  away  from  me, — 


[  398] 


ELIZABETH   (AKERS)   ALLEN     1832-1911 


That  every  step  of  high  emprise 
But  left  me  lowlier  in  your  eyes : 
I  watched  the  distance  as  it  grew, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  did  not  see  the  bitter  trace 
Of  anguish  sweep  across  my  face ; 
You  did  not  hear  my  proud  heart  beat 
Heavy  and  slow  beneath  your  feet: 
You  thought  of  triumphs  still  unwon, 
Of  glorious  deeds  as  yet  undone ; 
And  I,  the  while  you  talked  to  me, 
I  watched  the  gulls  float  lonesomely 
Till  lost  amid  the  hungry  blue, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  walk  the  sunny  side  of  Fate; 
The  wise  world  smiles,  and  calls  you  great ; 
The  golden  fruitage  of  success 
Drops  at  your  feet  in  plenteousness ; 
And  you  have  blessings  manifold, — 
Renown  and  power,  and  friends  and  gold. 
They  build  a  wall  between  us  twain 
Which  may  not  be  thrown  down  again. 
Alas !  for  I,  the  long  years  through, 
Have  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 


[399 


ELIZABETH  (AKERS)  ALLEN     1832-1911 

Your  life's  proud  aim,  your  art's  high  truth, 
Have  kept  the  promise  of  your  youth ; 
And  while  you  won  the  crown  which  now 
Breaks  into  bloom  upon  your  brow, 
My  soul  cried  strongly  out  to  you 
Across  the  ocean's  yearning  blue, 
While,  unremembered  and  afar, 
I  watched  you,  as  I  watch  a  star 
Through  darkness  struggling  into  view, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

I  used  to  dream,  in  all  these  years 
Of  patient  faith  and  silent  tears, 
That  Love's  strong  hand  would  put  aside 
The  barriers  of  place  and  pride, — 
Would  reach  the  pathless  darkness  through 
And  draw  me  softly  up  to  you. 
But  that  is  past;  if  you  should  stray 
Beside  my  grave  some  future  day, 
Perchance  the  violets  o'er  my  dust 
Will  half  betray  their  buried  trust, 
And  say,  their  blue  eyes  full  of  dew, 
"She  loved  you  better  than  you  knew." 


[400] 


GEORGE  PRATT     1832-1875 


A  Pen  of  Steel 

Give  me  a  pen  of  steel ! 

Away  with  the  gray  goose-quill ! 
I  will  grave  the  thoughts  I  feel 

With  a  fiery  heart  and  will : 
I  will  grave  with  the  stubborn  pen 

On  the  tablets  of  the  heart, 
Words  never  to  fade  again 

And  thoughts  that  shall  ne'er  depart. 

Give  me  a  pen  of  steel ! 

Hardened  and  bright  and  keen, — 
To  run  like  the  chariot  wheel, 

When  the  battle-flame  is  seen: — 
And  give  me  the  warrior's  heart, 

To  struggle  thro'  night  and  day, 
And  to  write  with  this  thing  of  art 

Words  clear  as  the  lightning's  play. 

Give  me  a  pen  of  steel ! 

The  softer  age  is  done, 
And  the  thoughts  that  lovers  feel 

Have  long  been  sought  and  won: — 
No  more  of  the  gray  goose-quill — 

No  more  of  the  lover's  lay — 
I  have  done  with  the  minstrel's  skill, 

And  I  change  my  path  to-day. 


[401] 


GEORGE  PRATT     1832-1875 


Give  me  a  pen  of  steel ! 

I  will  tell  to  after-times 
How  nerve  and  iron  will 

Are  poured  to  the  world  in  rhymes ; 
How  the  soul  is  changed  to  power, 

And  the  heart  is  changed  to  flame, 
In  the  space  of  a  passing  hour 

By  poverty  and  shame ! 

Give  me  a  pen  of  steel ! — 

But  even  this  shall  rust, 
The  touch  of  time  shall  feel, 

And  crumble  away  to  dust : — 
So  perishes  my  heart, 

Corroding  day  by  day — 
And  laid  like  the  pen  apart, 

Worn  out  and  cast  away ! 


402] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 

Pan  in  Wall  Street 
A.  D.  1867 

Just  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 

Looks  over  Wall  Street's  mingled  nations; 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 

To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quotations ; 
WThere,  hour  by  hour,,  the  rates  of  gold 

Outrival,,  in  the  ears  of  people, 
The  quarter-chimes,  serenely  tolled 

From  Trinity's  undaunted  steeple, — 

Even  there  I  heard  a  strange,  wild  strain 

Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamor, 
Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain, 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction's  hammer; 
And  swift,  on  Music's  misty  ways, 

It  led,  from  all  this  strife  for  millions, 
To  ancient,  sweet-do-nothing  days 

Among  the  kirtle-robed  Sicilians. 

And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude, 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  shriller, 
I  saw  the  minstrel,  where  he  stood 

At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar: 
One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan's-pipe  (fashioned 
Like  those  of  old)  to  lips  that  made 

The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impassioned. 

[403] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


'T  was  Pan  himself  had  wandered  here 

A-strolling  through  this  sordid  city, 
And  piping  to  the  civic  ear 

The  prelude  of  some  pastoral  ditty! 
The  demigod  had  crossed  the  seas, — 

From  haunts  of  shepherd,  nymph,  and  satyr, 
And  Syracusan  times, — to  these 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head; 

But — hidden  thus — there  was  no  doubting 
That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o'erspread, 

His  gnarled  horns  were  somewhere  sprouting; 
His  club-feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes, 

Were  crossed,  as  on  some  frieze  you  see  them, 
And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues, 

Concealed  his  crooked  shanks  beneath  them. 

He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound, 

And  o'er  his  mouth  their  changes  shifted, 
And  with  his  goat's-eyes  looked  around 

Where'er  the  passing  current  drifted; 
And  soon,  as  on  Trinacrian  hills 

The  nymphs  and  herdsmen  ran  to  hear  him, 
Even  now  the  tradesmen  from  their  tills, 

With  clerks  and  porters,  crowded  near  him. 


404 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


The  bulls  and  bears  together  drew 

From  Jauncey  Court  and  New  Street  Alley, 
As  erst,  if  pastorals  bePErue, 

Came  beasts  from  every  wooded  valley; 
The  random  passers  stayed  to  list, — 

A  boxer  JEgon,  rough  and  merry, 
A  Broadway  Daphnis,  on  his  tryst 

With  Nais  at  the  Brooklyn  Ferry. 

A  one-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 

In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern, 
And  Galatea  joined  the  throng, — 

A  blowsy,  apple-vending  slattern; 
While  old  Silenus  staggered  out 

From  some  new-fangled  lunch-house  handy, 
And  bade  the  piper,  with  a  shout, 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy ! 

A  newsboy  and  a  peanut-girl 

Like  little  Fauns  began  to  caper: 
His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  tawny  legs  were  bare  and  taper ; 
And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 

And  gave  its  pence  and  crowded  nigher, 
While  aye  the  shepherd-minstrel  blew 

His  pipe,  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 


[405 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 

O  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught  her,— 
Even  here,  as  on  the  vine-clad  hill, 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water ! 
New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 

Arise  within  these  ocean  portals, 
But  Music  waves  eternal  wands, — 

Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals ! 

So  thought  I, — but  among  us  trod 

A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton, 
And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demigod, 

And  pushed  him  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 
Doubting  I  mused  upon  the  cry, 

"Great  Pan  is  dead !" — and  all  the  people 
Went  on  their  ways: — and  clear  and  high 

The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 


The  Ballad  of  Lager  Bier 

In  fallow  college  days,  Tom  Harland, 

We  both  have  known  the  ways  of  Yale, 
And  talked  of  many  a  nigh  and  far  land, 

O'er  many  a  famous  tap  of  ale. 
There  still  they  sing  their  Gaudeamus, 

And  see  the  road  to  glory  clear; 
But  taps,  that  in  our  day  were  famous, 

Have  given  place  to  Lager  Bier. 

[406] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


Now,  settled  in  this  island-city,, 

We  let  new  fashions  have  their  weight; 
Though  none  too  lucky — more  's  the  pity  !- 

Can  still  beguile  our  humble  state 
By  finding  time  to  come  together, 

In  every  season  of  the  year, 
In  sunny,  wet,  or  windy  weather, 

And  clink  our  mugs  of  Lager  Bier. 

On  winter  evenings,  cold  and  blowing, 

'T  is  good  to  order  "  'alf  and  'alf " ; 
To  watch  the  fire-lit  pewter  glowing, 

And  laugh  a  hearty  English  laugh; 
Or  even  a  sip  of  mountain  whiskey 

Can  raise  a  hundred  phantoms  dear 
Of  days  when  boyish  blood  was  frisky, 

And  no  one  heard  of  Lager  Bier. 

We  Ve  smoked  in  summer  with  Oscanyan, 

Cross-legged  in  that  defunct  bazaar, 
Until  above  our  heads  the  banyan 

Or  palm-tree  seemed  to  spread  afar; 
And,  then  and  there,  have  drunk  his  sherbet, 

Tinct  with  the  roses  of  Cashmere: 
That  Orient  calm !  who  would  disturb  it 

With  Norseland  calls  for  Lager  Bier? 


[407] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


There  's  Paris  chocolate, — nothing  sweeter, 

At  midnight,  when  the  dying  strain, 
Just  warbled  by  La  Favorita, 

Still  hugs  the  music-haunted  brain ; 
Yet  of  all  bibulous  compoundings, 

Extracts  or  brewings,  mixed  or  clear, 
The  best,  in  substance  and  surroundings, 

For  frequent  use,  is  Lager  Bier. 

Karl  Schaeffer  is  a  stalwart  brewer, 

Who  has  above  his  vaults  a  hall, 
Where — fresh-tapped,  foaming,  cool,  and  pure 

He  serves  the  nectar  out  to  all. 
Tom  Harland,  have  you  any  money? 

Why,  then^  we  '11  leave  this  hemisphere, 
This  western  land  of  milk  and  honey, 

For  one  that  flows  with  Lager  Bier. 

Go,  flaxen-haired  and  blue-eyed  maiden, 

My  German  Hebe !  hasten  through 
Yon  smoke-cloud,  and  return  thou  laden 

With  bread  and  cheese  and  bier  for  two. 
Limburger  suits  this  bearded  fellow; 

His  brow  is  high,  his  taste  severe: 
But  I  'm  for  Schweitzer,  mild  and  yellow, 

To  eat  with  bread  and  Lager  Bier. 


408 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


Ah,  yes !  the  Schweitzer  hath  a  savor 

Of  marjoram  and  mountain  thyme, 
An  odoriferous,  Alpine  flavor; 

You  almost  hear  the  cow-bells  chime 
While  eating  it,  or,  dying  faintly, 

The  Ranz-des-vaches  entrance  the  ear, 
Until  you  feel  quite  Swiss  and  saintly, 

Above  your  glass  of  Lager  Bier. 

Here  come  our  drink,  froth-crowned  and  sunlit, 

In  goblets  with  high-curving  arms, 
Drawn  from  a  newly  opened  runlet, 

As  bier  must  be,  to  have  its  charms, 
This  primal  portion  each  shall  swallow 

At  one  draught,  for  a  pioneer; 
And  thus  a  ritual  usage  follow 

Of  all  who  honor  Lager  Bier. 

Glass  after  glass  in  due  succession, 

Till,  borne  through  midriff,  heart  and  brain, 
He  mounts  his  throne  and  takes  possession, — 

The  genial  Spirit  of  the  grain ! 
Then  comes  the  old  Berserker  madness 

To  make  each  man  a  priest  and  seer, 
And,  with  a  Scandinavian  gladness, 

Drink  deeper  draughts  of  Lager  Bier ! 


[409 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


Go,,  maiden,,  fill  again  our  glasses  ! 

While,  with  anointed  eyes,  we  scan 
The  blouse  Teutonic  lads  and  lasses, 

The  Saxon — Pruss — Bohemian,, 
The  sanded  floor,  the  cross-beamed  gables, 

The  ancient  Flemish  paintings  queer, 
The  rusty  cup-stains  on  the  tables, 

The  terraced  kegs  of  Lager  Bier. 

And  is  it  Gottingen  or  Gotha, 

Or  Munich's  ancient  Wagner  Brei, 
Where  each  Bavarian  drinks  his  quota, 

And  swings  a  silver  tankard  high  ? 
Or  some  ancestral  Gast-Haus  lofty 

In   Nuremburg — of   famous   cheer 
When  Hans  Sachs  lived,  and  where,  so  oft,  he 

Sang  loud  the  praise  of  Lager  Bier? 

For  even  now  some  curious  glamour 

Has  brought  about  a  misty  change! 
Things  look,  as  in  a  moonlight  dream,  or 

Magician's  mirror,   quaint  and  strange. 
Some  weird,,  phantasmagoric  notion 

Impels  us  backward  many  a  year, 
And  far  across  the  northern  ocean, 

To  Fatherlands  of  Lager  Bier. 


[410} 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


As  odd  a  throng  I  see  before  us 

As  ever  haunted  Brocken's  height, 
Carousing,  with  unearthly  chorus, 

On  any  wild  Walpurgis-night ; 
I  see  the  wondrous  art-creations ! 

In  proper  guise  they  all  appear, 
And,  in  their  due  and  several  stations, 

Unite  in  drinking  Lager  Bier. 

I  see  in  yonder  nook  a  trio: 

There  's  Doctor  Faust,  and,  by  his  side, 
Not  half  so  love-distraught  as  lo, 

Is  gentle  Margaret,  heaven-eyed; 
That  man  in  black  beyond  the  waiter — 

I  know  him  by  his  fiendish  leer — 
Is  Mephistopheles,  the  traitor ! 

And  how  he  swigs  his  Lager  Bier ! 

Strange  if  great  Goethe  should  have  blundered, 

Who  says  that  Margaret  slipt  and  fell 
In  Anno  Domini  Sixteen  Hundred, 

Or  thereabout;  and  Faustus, — well, 
We  won't  deplore  his  resurrection, 

Since  Margaret  is  with  him  here, 
But,  under  her  serene  protection, 

May  boldly  drink  our  Lager  Bier. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


That  bare-legged  gypsy,  small  and  lithy, 

Tanned  like  an  olive  by  the  sun, 
Is  little  Mignon;  sing  us,  prithee, 

Kennst  du  das  Land,  my  pretty  one ! 
Ah,  no!  she  shakes  her  southern  tresses, 

As  half  in  doubt  and  more  in  fear; 
Perhaps  the  elvish  creature  guesses 

We  've  had  too  much  of  Lager  Bier. 

There  moves,  full-bodiced,  ripe,  and  human, 

With  merry  smiles  to  all  who  come, 
Karl  Schaeffer's  wife — the  very  woman 

Whom  Rubens  drew  his  Venus  from ! 
But  what  a  host  of  tricksome  graces 

Play  around  our  fairy  Undine  here, 
Who  pouts  at  all  the  bearded  faces, 

And,  laughing,  brings  the  Lager  Bier. 

"Sit  down,  nor  chase  the  vision  farther, 

You're  tied  to  Yankee  cities  still!" 
I  hear  you,  but  so  much  the  rather 

Should  Fancy  travel  where  she  will. 
You  let  the  dim  ideals  scatter ; 

One  puff,  and  lo !  they  disappear ; 
The  comet,  next,  or  some  such  matter, 

We  '11  talk  above  our  Lager  Bier. 


[412] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 

Now,,  then,,  your  eyes  begin  to  brighten, 

And  marvellous   theories  to   flow; 
A  philosophic  theme  you  light  on, 

And,  spurred  and  booted,  off  you  go ! 
If  e'er — to  drive  Apollo's  phaeton — 

I  need  an  earthly  charioteer, 
This  tall-browed  genius  I  will  wait  on, 

And  prime  him  first  with  Lager  Bier. 

But  higher  yet,  in  middle  Heaven, 

Your  steed  seems  taking  flight,  my  friend; 
You  read  the  secret  of  the  Seven, 

And  on  through  trackless  regions  wend ! 
Don't  vanish  in  the  Milky  Way,  for 

This  afternoon  you  're  wanted  here ; 
Come  back!     Come  back!  and  help  me  pay  for 

The  bread  and  cheese  and  Lager  Bier. 


Edged  Tools 

Well,  Helen,  quite  two  years  have  flown 

Since  that  enchanted,  dreamy  night, 
When  you  and  I  were  left  alone, 

And  wondered  whether  they  were  right, 
Who  said  that  each  the  other  loved; 

And  thus  debating,  yes  and  no, 
And  half  in  earnest,  as  it  proved, 

We  bargained  to  pretend  't  was  so. 

[413] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


Two  sceptic  children  of  the  world,, 

Each  with  a  heart  engraven  o'er 
With  broken  love-knots,,  quaintly  curled,, 

Of  hot  flirtations  held  before; 
Yet,  somehow,  either  seemed  to  find, 

This  time,  a  something  more  akin 
To  that  young,  natural  love, — the  kind 

Which  comes  but  once,  and  breaks  us  in, 

What  sweetly  stolen  hours  we  knew, 

And  frolics  perilous  as  gay ! 
Though  lit  in  sport,  Love's  taper  grew 

More  bright  and  burning  day  by  day. 
We  knew  each  heart  was  only  lent 

The  other's  ancient  scars  to  heal: 
The  very  thought  a  pathos  blent 

With  all  the  mirth  we  tried  to  feel. 

How  bravely,  when  the  time  to  part 

Came  with  the  wanton  season's  close, 
Though  nature  with  our  mutual  art 

Had  mingled  more  than  either  chose, 
We  smothered  Love,  upon  the  verge 

Of  folly,  in  one  last  embrace, 
And  buried  him  without  a  dirge, 

And  turned,  and  left  his  resting-place. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


Yet  often  (tell  me  what  it  means !) 

His  spirit  steals  upon  me  here, 
Far,  far  away  from  all  the  scenes 

His  little  lifetime  held  so  dear ; 
He  comes:  I  hear  a  mystic  strain 

In  which  some  tender  memory  lies ; 
I  dally  with  your  hair  again ; 

I  catch  the  gleam  of  violet  eyes. 

Ah,  Helen!  how  have  matters  been 

Since  those  rude  obsequies,  with  you? 
Say,  is  my  partner  in  the  sin 

A  sharer  of  the  penance  too? 
Again  the  vision  's  at  my  side: 

I  drop  my  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  wonder  if  he  really  died, 

And  why  his  spirit  will  not  rest. 


The  Undiscovered  Country 

Could  we  but  know 
The  land  that  ends  our  dark,  uncertain  travel, 

Where  lie  those  happier  hills  and  meadows  low,- 
Ah,  if  beyond  the  spirit's  inmost  cavil, 

Aught  of  that  country  could  we  surely  know, 
Who  would  not  go? 


[415] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


Might  we  but  hear 
The  hovering  angels'  high  imagined  chorus, 

Or  catch,  betimes,  with  wakeful  eyes  and  clear, 
One  radiant  vista  of  the  realm  before  us, — 
With  one  rapt  moment  given  to  see  and  hear, 
Ah,  who  would  fear? 

Were  we  quite  sure 
To  find  the  peerless  friend  who  left  us  lonely, 

Or  there,  by  some  celestial  stream  as  pure, 
To  gaze  in  eyes  that  here  were  lovelit  only, — 
This  weary  mortal  coil,  were  we  quite  sure, 
Who  would  endure? 


The  World  Well  Lost 

That  year?     Yes,  doubtless  I  remember  still, — 
Though  why  take  count  of  every  wind  that  blows ! 

'T  was  plain,  men  said,  that  Fortune  used  me  ill 
That  year, — the  self-same  year  I  met  with  Rose. 

Crops  failed ;  wealth  took  a  flight ;  house,  treasure,  land, 
Slipped  from  my  hold — thus  plenty  comes  and  goes. 

One  friend  I  had,  but  he  too  loosed  his  hand 
(Or  was  it  I?)  the  year  I  met  with  Rose. 


[416] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


There  was  a  war,  I  think ;  some  rumor,  too, 
Of  famine,  pestilence,  fire,  deluge,  snows ; 

Things  went  awry.     My  rivals,  straight  in  view, 
Throve,  spite  of  all;  but  I, — I  met  with  Rose. 

That  year  my  white-faced  Alma  pined  and  died : 
Some  trouble  vexed  her  quiet  heart, — who  knows  ? 

Not  I,  who  scarcely  missed  her  from  my  side, 
Or  aught  else  gone,  the  year  I  met  with  Rose. 

Was  there  no  more?     Yes,  that  year  life  began: 
All  life  before  a  dream,  false  joys,  light  woes, — 

All  after-life  compressed  within  the  span 

Of  that  one  year, — the  year  I  met  with  Rose! 


Si  Jeunesse  Savait! 

When  the  veil  from  the  eyes  is  lifted 

The  seer's  head  is  gray; 
When  the  sailor  to  shore  has  drifted 

The  sirens  are  far  away. 
Why  must  the  clearer  vision, 

The  wisdom  of  Life's  late  hour, 
Come,  as  in  Fate's  derision, 

When  the  hand  has  lost  its  power  ? 
Is  there  a  rarer  being, 

Is  there  a  fairer  sphere 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 

Where  the  strong  are  not  unseeing, 

And  the  harvests  are  not  sere; 
Where,,  ere  the  seasons  dwindle, 

They  yield  their  due  return ; 
Where  the  lamps  of  knowledge  kindle 

While  the  flames  of  youth  still  burn? 
O,  for  the  young  man's  chances ! 

O,  for  the  old  man's  will ! 
Those  flee  while  this  advances, 

And  the  strong  years  cheat  us  still. 


Provencal  Lovers 
Aucassin  and  Nicolette 

Within  the  garden  of  Beaucaire 
He  met  her  by  a  secret  stair, — 
The  night  was  centuries  ago. 
Said  Aucassin,  "My  love,  my  pet, 
These  old  confessors  vex  me  so ! 
They  threaten  all  the  pains  of  hell 
Unless  I  give  you  up,  ma  belle" ; — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"Now,  who  should  there  in  Heaven  be 
To  fill  your  place,  ma  tres-douce  mie? 
To  reach  that  spot  I  little  care! 
There  all  the  droning  priests  are  met ; 

[418] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 

All  the  old  cripples,  too,  are  there 
That  unto  shrines  and  altars  cling 
To  filch  the  Peter-pence  we  bring"; — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"There  are  the  barefoot  monks  and  friars 
With  gowns  well  tattered  by  the  briars, 
The  saints  who  lift  their  eyes  and  whine : 
I  like  them  not — a  starveling  set! 
Who  'd  care  with  folk  like  these  to  dine  ? 
The  other  road  't  were  just  as  well 
That  you  and  I  would  take,  ma  belle !" — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"To  purgatory  I  would  go 

With  pleasant  comrades  whom  we  know, 

Fair  scholars,  minstrels,  lusty  knights 

Whose  deeds  the  land  will  not  forget, 

The  captains  of  a  hundred  fights, 

The  men  of  valor  and  degree: 

We  '11  join  that  gallant  company," — 

Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"There,  too,  are  jousts  and  joyance  rare, 
And  beauteous  ladies  debonair, 
The  pretty  dames,  the  merry  brides, 
Who  with  their  wedded  lords  coquette 
And  have  a  friend  or  two  besides, — 
And  all  in  gold  and  trappings  gay, 
With  furs,  and  crests  in  vair  and  gray"; — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

[419] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


"Sweet  players  on  the  cithern  strings, 
And  they  who  roam  the  world  like  kings, 
Are  gathered  there,  so  blithe  and  free ! 
Pardie!     I  'd  join  them  now,  my  pet, 
If  you  went  also,  ma  douce  mie! 
The  joys  of  heaven  I  'd  forego 
To  have  you  with  me  there  below," — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 


Kearny  at  Seven  Pines 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey, — 

That  story  of  Kearny  who  knew  not  to  yield ! 
'T  was   the  day  when  with   Jameson,   fierce  Berry,  and 

Birney, 

Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 
Where   the  red  volleys   poured,  where  the   clamor   rose 

highest, 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf  oak 

and  pine, 

Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and  nighest, — 
No  charge  like  Phil  Kearny's  along  the  whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were  solemn, 
Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still  held  our 
ground, 

He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 
And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a  bound ; 

[4*0] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 

He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the  powder, — 

His  sword  waved  us  on  and  we  answered  the  sign: 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the 

louder, 

"There  Js  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the  whole 
line !" 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed !     How  we  saw  his  blade 
brighten 

In  the  one  hand  still  left, — and  the  reins  in  his  teeth ! 
He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 

But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 

Asking  where  to  go  in, — through  the  clearing  or  pine  ? 
"O,  anywhere!     Forward!     'T  is  all  the  same,  Colonel: 

You  '11  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line !" 

O,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 

That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and  tried ! 
Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 

The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's  pride ! 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still, — in  that  shadowy  region 

Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan  drummer's 

sign,— 
Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion, 

And  the  word  still  is  Forward !  along  the  whole  line. 


421} 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


Hypatia 

'T  is  fifteen  hundred  years,  you  say, 

Since  that  fair  teacher  died 
In  learned  Alexandria 

By  the  stone  altar's  side : — 
The  wild  monks  slew  her,  as  she  lay 

At  the  feet  of  the  Crucified. 

Yet  in  a  prairie-town,  one  night, 

I  found  her  lecture-hall, 
Where  bench  and  dais  stood  aright, 

And  statues  graced  the  wall, 
And  pendent  brazen  lamps  the  light 

Of  classic  days  let  fall. 

A  throng  that  watched  the  speaker's  face 

And  on  her  accents  hung, 
Was  gathered  there:  the  strength,  the  grace 

Of  lands  where  life  is  young 
Ceased  not,  I  saw,  with  that  blithe  race 

From  old  Pelasgia  sprung. 

No  civic  crown  the  sibyl  wore, 

Nor  academic  tire, 
But  shining  skirts,  that  trailed  the  floor 

And  made  her  stature  higher; 
A  written  scroll  the  lecturn  bore, 

And  flowers  bloomed  anigh  her. 


[422] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


The  wealth  her  honeyed  speech  had  won 

Adorned  her  in  our  sight; 
The  silkworm  for  her  sake  had  spun 

His  cincture,  day  and  night; 
With  broider-work  and  Honiton 

Her  open  sleeves  were  bright. 

But  still  Hypatia's  self  I  knew. 
And  saw,  with  dreamy  wonder, 

The  form  of  her  whom  Cyril  slew 
(See  Kingsley's  novel,  yonder) 

Some  fifteen  centuries  since,  't  is  true, 
And  half  a  world  asunder. 

Her  hair  was  coifed  Athenian-wise, 
With  one  loose  tress  down-flowing; 

Apollo's  rapture  lit  her  eyes, 
His  utterance  bestowing, — 

A  silver  flute's  clear  harmonies 
On  which  a  god  was  blowing. 

Yet  not  of  Plato's  sounding  spheres, 

And  universal  Pan, 
She  spoke ;  but  searched  historic  years, 

The  sisterhood  to  scan 
Of  women, — girt  with  ills  and  fears, — 

Slaves  to  the  tyrant,  Man. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


Their  crosiered  banner  she  unfurled,, 
And  onward  pushed  her  quest 

Through  golden  ages  of  a  world 
By  their  deliverance  blest: — 

At  all  who  stay  their  hands  she  hurled 
Defiance  from  her  breast. 

I  saw  her  burning  words  infuse 
A  warmth  through  many  a  heart, 

As  still,  in  bright  successive  views, 
She  drew  her  sex's  part; 

Discoursing,  like  the  Lesbian  Muse, 
On  work,  and  song,  and  art. 

Why  vaunt,  I  thought,  the  past,  or  say 

The  later  is  the  less? 
Our  Sappho  sang  but  yesterday, 

Of  whom  two  climes  confess 
Heaven's  flame  within  her  wore  away 

Her  earthly  loveliness. 

So  let  thy  wild  heart  ripple  on, 
Brave  girl,,  through  vale  and  city ! 

Spare,  of  its  listless  moments,  one 
To  this,  thy  poet's  ditty ; 

Nor  long  forbear,  when  all  is  done, 
Thine  own  sweet  self  to  pity. 


[424] 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN     1833-1906 


The  priestess  of  the  Sestian  tower,, 
Whose  knight  the  sea  swam  over, 

Among  her  votaries'  gifts  no  flower 
Of  heart's-ease  could  discover: 

She  died,,  but  in  no  evil  hour,, 
Who,,  dying,  clasped  her  lover. 

The  rose-tree  has  its  perfect  life 
When  the  full  rose  is  blown; 

Some  height  of  womanhood  the  wife 
Beyond  thy  dream  has  known ; 

Set  not  thy  head  and  heart  at  strife 
To  keep  thee  from  thine  own. 

Hypatia !  thine  essence  rare 
The  rarer  joy  should  merit: 

Possess  thee  of  the  common  share 
Which  lesser  souls  inherit: 

All  gods  to  thee  their  garlands  bear,- 
Take  one  from  Love  and  wear  it! 


[425] 


JOHN  JAMES  IXGALLS     1833-1900 


Opportunity 

"Master  of  human  destinies  am  I ! 
Fame,  love^  and  fortune  on  my  footsteps  wait. 
Cities  and  fields  I  walk;  I  penetrate 
Deserts  and  seas  remote,  and  passing  by 
Hovel  and  mart  and  palace — soon  or  late 
I  knock  unbidden  once  at  every  gate ! 

"If  sleeping,  wake — if  feasting,  rise  before 
I  turn  away.     It  is  the  hour  of  fate, 
And  they  who  follow  me  reach  every  state 
Mortals  desire,  and  conquer  every  foe 
Save  death ;  but  those  who  doubt  or  hesitate, 
Condemned  to  failure,  penury,  and  woe, 
Seek  me  in  vain  and  uselessly  implore. 
I  answer  not,  and  I  return  no  more!" 


[426 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 


Baby  Bell 


Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 

How  came  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours? 

The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar: 

With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 

Wandering  out  of  Paradise,, 

She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even — 

Its  bridges  running  to  and  fro, 

O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angels  go, 

Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven. 

She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers — those  feet, 

So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 

Of  the  celestial  asphodels, 

They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers: 

Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet. 

And  thus  came  dainty  Baby  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours. 

II 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May; 
The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves ; 
Like  sunlight,  in  and  out  the  leaves 
The  robins  went,  the  livelong  day; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell; 
And  on  the  porch  the  slender  vine 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 


Held  out  its  cups  of  fairy  wine. 
Oh,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds 
And  opening  springtide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Came  into  this  world  of  ours. 

Ill 

O  Baby,  dainty  Baby  Bell, 

How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day ! 

What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes, 

What  poetry  within  them  lay — 

Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 

So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 

As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 

Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise. 

And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more: 

Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 

Was  love  so  lovely  born. 

We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 

This  real  world  and  that  unseen — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn; 

And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 

For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 

(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 

When  Baby  came  from  Paradise,)  — 

For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 

We  said,  Dear  Christ! — our  hearts  bowed  down 

Like  violets  after  rain. 


428  ] 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 


IV 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 

And  pink  with  blossoms  when  she  came,, 

Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime; 

The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 

The  folded  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 

The  grapes  hung  purpling,  range  on  range : 

And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 

In  little  Baby  Bell. 

Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 

And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 

In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face. 

Her  angel-nature  ripened  too: 

We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came, 

But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now  .... 

Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 

We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame. 


God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 
That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 
Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 
We  never  held  her  being's  key; 
We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things 
Who  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 

VI 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees, 

We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell — 

The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 

His  messenger  for  Baby  Bell. 

We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 

And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 

And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 

Like  sunshine  into  rain. 

We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 

"Oh,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God ! 

Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 

And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 

Ah !  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell ; 

Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 

Our  hearts  are  broken,  Baby  Bell! 

VII 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands: 

And  what  did  dainty  Baby  Bell? 

She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 

She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair ! 

We  parted  back  her  silken  hair, 

We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow — 

White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow— 

Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers  .  .  . 

And  thus  went  dainty  Baby  Bell 

Out  of  this  world  of  ours. 

[480} 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 


Song  from  the  Persian 

Ah !  sad  are  they  who  know  not  love, 
But,  far  from  passion's  tears  and  smiles, 
Drift  down  a  moonless  sea,  beyond 
The  silvery  coasts  of  fairy  isles. 

And  sadder  they  whose  longing  lips 
Kiss  empty  air,  and  never  touch 
The  dear  warm  mouth  of  those  they  love- 
Waiting,  wasting,  suffering  much. 

But  clear  as  amber,  fine  as  musk, 
Is  life  to  those  who,  pilgrim-wise, 
Move  hand  in  hand  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
Each  morning  nearer  Paradise. 

Ah,  not  for  them  shall  angels  pray ! 
They  stand  in  everlasting  light, 
They  walk  in  Allah's  smile  by  day, 
And  slumber  in  his  heart  by  night. 


[431 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 


Palabras  Carinosas 

Good-night !  I  have  to  say  good-night 
To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things ! 
Good-night  unto  the  slender  hand 
All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings ; 
Good-night  to  fond,  uplifted  eyes, 
Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair, 
Good-night  unto  the  perfect  mouth, 
And. all  the  sweetness  nestled  there — 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I  '11  have  to  say  Good-night  again ! 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  love, 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  farewells.     Till  then,  good-night! 

You  wisli  the  time  wrere  now?     And  I. 

You  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so  ? 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago — 

What,  both  these  snowy  hands !  ah,  then 
I  '11  have  to  say  Good-night  again ! 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 


In  an  Atelier 

I  pray  you,  do  not  turn  your  head ; 
And  let  your  hands  lie  folded,  so. 
It  was  a  dress  like  this,  wine-red, 
That  troubled  Dante,  long  ago. 
You  don't  know  Dante?     Never  mind. 
He  loved  a  lady  wondrous  fair — 
His  model  ?     Something  of  the  kind. 
I  wonder  if  she  had  your  hair! 

I  wonder  if  she  looked  so  meek, 
And  was  not  meek  at  all  (my  dear, 
I  want  that  side  light  on  your  cheek). 
He  loved  her,  it  is  very  clear, 
And  painted  her,  as  I  paint  you, 
But  rather  better,  on  the  whole 
(Depress  your  chin;  yes,  that  will  do)  : 
He  was  a  painter  of  the  soul ! 

(And  painted  portraits,  too,  I  think, 
In  the  Inferno — devilish  good ! 
I  'd  make  some  certain  critics  blink 
Had  I  his  method  and  his  mood.) 
Her  name  was  (Fanny,  let  your  glance 
Rest  there,  by  that  majolica  tray)  — 
Was  Beatrice;  they  met  by  chance — 
They  met  by  chance,  the  usual  way. 


[433] 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 

(As  you  and  I  met,  months  ago, 
Do  you  remember?     How  your  feet 
Went  crinkle-crinkle  on  the  snow 
Along  the  bleak  gas-lighted  street ! 
An  instant  in  the  drug-store's  glare 
You  stood  as  in  a  golden  frame, 
And  then  I  swore  it,  then  and  there, 
To  hand  your  sweetness  down  to  fame.) 

They  met,  and  loved,  and  never  wed 
(All  this  was  long  before  our  time), 
And  though  they  died,  they  are  not  dead — - 
Such  endless  youth  gives  mortal  rhyme! 
Still  walks  the  earth,  with  haughty  mien, 
Pale  Dante,  in  his  soul's  distress; 
And  still  the  lovely  Florentine 
Goes  lovely  in  her  wine-red  dress. 

You  do  not  understand  at  all  ? 

He  was  a  poet;  on  his  page 

He  drew  her ;  and,  though  kingdoms  fall, 

This  lady  lives  from  age  to  age. 

A  poet — that  means  painter  too, 

For  words  are  colors,  rightly  laid; 

And  they  outlast  our  brightest  hue, 

For  varnish  cracks  and  crimsons  fade. 

The  poets — they  are  lucky  ones ! 
When  we  are  thrust  upon  the  shelves, 
Our  works  turn  into  skeletons 
Almost  as  quickly  as  ourselves; 


434 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 

For  our  poor  canvas  peels  at  length, 

At  length  is  prized — when  all  is  bare: 

"What  grace !"  the  critics  cry,  "what  strength !" 

When  neither  strength  nor  grace  is  there. 

Ah,  Fanny,  I  am  sick  at  heart, 
It  is  so  little  one  can  do; 
We  talk  our  jargon — live  for  Art! 
I  'd  much  prefer  to  live  for  you. 
How  dull  and  lifeless  colors  are ! 
You  smile,  and  all  my  picture  lies: 
I  wish  that  I  could  crush  a  star 
To  make  a  pigment  for  your  eyes. 

Yes,  child,  I  know,  I  am  out  of  tune ; 
The  light  is  bad;  the  sky  is  gray: 
I  paint  no  more  this  afternoon, 
So  lay  your  royal  gear  away. 
Besides,  you  're  moody — chin  on  hand — 
I  know  not  what — not  in  the  vein — 
Not  like  Anne  Bullen,  sweet  and  bland: 
You  sit  there  smiling  in  disdain. 

Not  like  the  Tudor's  radiant  Queen, 
Unconscious  of  the  coming  woe, 
But  rather  as  she  might  have  been, 
Preparing  for  the  headsman's  blow. 
So,  I  have  put  you  in  a  miff — 
Sitting  bolt-upright,  wrist  on  wrist. 
How  should  you  look?     Why,  dear,  as  if — 
Somehow — as  if  you  'd  just  been  kissed ! 


435 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 


On  Lynn  Terrace 

All  day  to  watch  the  blue  wave  curl  and  break, 
All  night  to  hear  it  plunging  on  the  shore — 
In  this  sea-dream  such  draughts  of  life  I  take, 
I  cannot  ask  for  more. 

Behind  me  lie  the  idle  life  and  vain, 

The  task  unfinished,  and  the  weary  hours ; 
That  long  wave  softly  bears  me  back  to  Spain 
And  the  Alhambra's  towers ! 

Once  more  I  halt  in  Andalusian  Pass, 

To  list  the  mule-bells  jingling  on  the  height; 
Below,  against  the  dull  esparto  grass, 

The  almonds  glimmer  white. 

Huge  gateways,  wrinkled,  with  rich  grays  and  browns, 

Invite  my  fancy,  and  I  wander  through 
The  gable-shadowed,  zigzag  streets  of  towns 
The  world's  first  sailors  knew. 

Or,  if  I  will,  from  out  this  thin  sea-haze 
Low-lying  cliffs  of  lovely  Calais  rise; 
Or  yonder,  with  the  pomp  of  olden  days, 
Venice  salutes  my  eyes. 

Or  some  gaunt  castle  lures  me  up  its  stair; 
I  see,  far  off,  the  red  tiled  hamlets  shine, 
And  catch,  through  slits  of  windows  here  and  there, 
Blue  glimpses  of  the  Rhine. 


[436] 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 


Again  I  pass  Norwegian  fjord  and  fell, 

And  through  bleak  wastes  to  where  the  sunset's  fires 
Light  up  the  white-walled  Russian  citadel, 

The  Kremlin's  domes  and  spires. 

And  now  I  linger  in  green  English  lanes, 

By  garden-plots  of  rose  and  heliotrope ; 
And  now  I  face  the  sudden  pelting  rains 
On  some  lone  Alpine  slope. 

Now  at  Tangier,  among  the  packed  bazaars, 
I  saunter,  and  the  merchants  at  the  doors 
Smile,  and  entice  me:  here  are  jewels  like  stars, 
And  curved  knives  of  the  Moors ; 

Cloths  of  Damascus,  strings  of  amber  dates ; 

What  would  Howadji — silver,  gold,  or  stone? 
Prone  on  the  sun-scorched  plain  outside  the  gates 
The  camels  make  their  moan. 

All  this  is  mine,  as  I  lie  dreaming  here, 

High  on  the  windy  terrace,  day  by  day; 
And  mine  the  children's  laughter,  sweet  and  clear, 
Ringing  across  the  bay. 

For  me  the  clouds ;  the  ships  sail  by  for  me ; 

For  me  the  petulant  sea-gull  takes  its  flight; 
And  mine  the  tender  moonrise  on  the  sea, 
And  hollow  caves  of  night. 


[487} 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 

On  an  Intaglio  Head  of  Minerva 

Beneath  the  warrior's  helm,,  behold 
The  flowing  tresses  of  the  woman ! 

Minerva.,  Pallas,  what  you  will — 

A  winsome  creature.,  Greek  or  Roman. 

Minerva  ?  No  !  't  is  some  sly  minx 
In  cousin's  helmet  masquerading; 

If  not — then  Wisdom  was  a  dame 
For  sonnets  and  for  serenading ! 

I  thought  the  goddess  cold,  austere, 

Not  made  for  love's  despairs  and  blisses: 

Did  Pallas  wear  her  hair  like  that? 

Was  Wisdom's  mouth  so  shaped  for  kisses? 

The  Nightingale  should  be  her  bird, 

And  not  the  Owl,  big-eyed  and  solemn: 

How  very  fresh  she  looks,  and  yet 

She  's  older  far  than  Trajan's  Column! 

The  magic  hand  that  carved  this  face, 
And  set  this  vine-work  round  it  running, 

Perhaps  ere  mighty  Phidias  wrought 
Had  lost  its  subtle  skill  and  cunning. 

Who  was  he?     Was  he  glad  or  sad, 
Who  knew  to  carve  in  such  a  fashion? 

Perchance  he  graved  the  dainty  head 

For  some  brown  girl  that  scorned  his  passion. 

[  43*  ] 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 


Perchance,,  in  some  still  garden-place, 
Where  neither  fount  nor  tree  to-day  is, 

He  flung  the  jewel  at  the  feet 

Of  Phryne,  or  perhaps  't  was  Lais. 

But  he  is  dust;  we  may  not  know 

His  happy  or  unhappy  story: 
Nameless  and  dead  these  centuries, 

His  work  outlives  him — there  's  his  glory ! 

Both  man  and  jewel  lay  in  earth 

Beneath  a  lava-buried  city ; 
The  countless  summers  came  and  went 

With  neither  haste,  nor  hate,  nor  pity. 

Years  blotted  out  the  man,  but  left 
The  jewel  fresh  as  any  blossom, 

Till  some  Visconti  dug  it  up — 

To  rise  and  fall  on  Mabel's  bosom! 

Oh  nameless  brother !  see  how  Time 

Your  gracious  handiwork  has  guarded: 

See  how  your  loving,  patient  art 
Has  come,  at  last,  to  be  rewarded. 

Who  would  not  suffer  slights  of  men, 
And  pangs  of  hopeless  passion  also, 

To  have  his  carven  agate-stone 
On  such  a  bosom  rise  and  fall  so ! 


439 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     1836-1907 


Nocturne 

Up  to  her  chamber  window 
A  slight  wire  trellis  goes, 
And  up  this  Romeo's  ladder 
Clambers  a  bold  white  rose. 

I  lounge  in  the  ilex  shadows, 
I  see  the  lady  lean, 
Unclasping  her  silken  girdle, 
The  curtain's  folds  between. 

She   smiles   on   her   white-rose   lover, 
She  reaches  out  her  hand 
And  helps  him  in  at  the  window — 
I  see  it  where  I  stand ! 

To  her  scarlet  lip  she  holds  him, 
And  kisses  him  many  a  time — 
Ah,  me !  it  was  he  that  won  her 
Because  he  dared  to  climb  ! 


[440] 


NANCY   (PRIEST)  WAKEFIELD     1836-1870 


Over  the  River 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me, — 

Loved  ones  who  Ve  cross'd  to  the  farther  side; 
The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see 

But  their  voices  are  drown'd  in  the  rushing  tide. 
There  's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold, 

And  eyes,  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own  blue; 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight,  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view. 
We  saw  not  the  angels  who  met  him  there ; 

The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me. 

Over  the  river,  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another, — the  household  pet: 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale — 

Darling  Minnie!  I  see  her  yet. 
She  cross'd  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands, 

And  fearlessly  enter'd  the  phantom  bark ; 
We  watch'd  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 

And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark. 
We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  farther  side, 

Where  all  the  ransom'd  and  angels  be; 
Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river, 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 


[441] 


NANCY  (PRIEST)  WAKEFIELD     1836-1870 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores, 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail, — 
And  lo!  they  have  pass'd  from  our  yearning  heart; 

They  cross  the  stream,  and  are  gone  for  aye; 
We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart, 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day. 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 

May  sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea; 
Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore, 

They  watch,  and  beckon,  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think,  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river,  and  hill,  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold, 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar; 
I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail; 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand; 
I  shall  pass  from  sight,  with  the  boatman  pale, 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land; 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, — 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 

The  Angel  of  Death  shall  carry  me. 


[442] 


JOHN  HAY     1838-1905 


Jim  Bludso  of  the  Prairie  Belle 

Wall,  no !  I  can't  tell  whar  he  lives, 

Because  he  don't  live,,  you  see; 
Leastways,  he  's  got  out  of  the  habit 

Of  livin'  like  you  and  me. 
Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  year 

That  you  have  n't  heard  folks  tell 
How  Jimmy  Bludso  passed  in  his  checks 

The  night  of  the  Prairie  Belle? 

He  were  n't  no  saint, — them  engineers 

Is  all  pretty  much  alike, — 
One  wife  in  Natchez-under-the-Hill 

And  another  one  here,  in  Pike; 
A  keerless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jim, 

And  an  awkward  hand  in  a  row, 
But  he  never  flunked,  and  he  never  lied, — 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

And  this  was  all  the  religion  he  had, — 

To  treat  his  engine  well; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  river; 

To  mind  the  pilot's  bell; 
And  if  ever  the  Prairie  Belle  took  fire, — 

A  thousand  times  he  swore 
He  'd  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore. 


JOHN  HAY     1838-1905 


All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississip, 

And  her  day  come  at  last, — 
The  Movastar  was  a  better  boat, 

But  the  Belle  she  would  n't  be  passed. 
And  so  she  come  tearin'  along  that  night — 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line — 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  her  safety-valve, 

And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 

The  fire  bust  out  as  she  clared  the  bar, 

And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night, 
And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned,  and  made 

For  that  wilier-bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cussin',  but  Jim  yelled  out, 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar, 
"I  '11  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  galoot  's  ashore." 

Through  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the  burnin'  boat 

Jim  Bludso's  voice  was  heard, 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussedness, 

And  knowed  he  would  keep  his  word. 
And,  sure  's  you  're  born,  they  all  got  off 

Afore  the  smokestacks  fell, — 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  Prairie  Belle. 


[444 


JOHN  HAY     1838-1905 


He  were  n't  no  saint, — but  at  j  edgment 

I  'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim, 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 

That  would  n't  shook  hands  with  him. 
He  seen  his  duty,  a  dead-sure  thing, — 

And  went  for  it  thar  and  then; 
And  Christ  ain't  a  going  to  be  too  hard 

On  a  man  that  died  for  men. 


The  Mystery  of  Gilgal 

The  darkest,  strangest  mystery 
I  ever  read,  or  heern,  or  see, 
Is  'long  of  a  drink  at  Taggart's  Hall, — 
Tom  Taggart's  of  Gilgal. 

I  've  heern  the  tale  a  thousand  ways, 
But  never  could  git  through  the  maze 
That  hangs  around  that  queer  day's  doin's; 
But  I  '11  tell  the  yarn  to  youans. 

Tom  Taggart  stood  behind  his  bar, 
The  time  was  fall,  the  skies  was  fa'r, 
The  neighbors  round  the  counter  drawed, 
And  ca'mly  drinked  and  jawed. 


[445] 


JOHN  HAY     1838-1905 


At  last  come  Colonel  Blood  of  Pike, 
And  old  Jedge  Phinn,  permiscus-like, 
And  each,  as  he  meandered  in, 
Remarked,  "A  whisky-skin." 

Tom  mixed  the  beverage  full  and  fa'r, 
And  slammed  it,  smoking,  on  the  bar. 
Some  says  three  fingers,  some  says  two, — • 
I  '11  leave  the  choice  to  you. 

Phinn  to  the  drink  put  forth  his  hand; 
Blood  drawed  his  knife,  with  accent  bland, 
"I  ax  yer  parding,  Mister  Phinn— 
Jest  drap  that  whisky  skin." 

No  man  high-toneder  could  be  found 
Than  old  Jedge  Phinn  the  country  round. 
Says  he,  "Young  man,  the  tribe  of  Phinns 
Knows  their  own  whisky-skins  !" 

He  went  for  his  'leven-inch  bowie-knife : — 
"I  tries  to  foller  a  Christian  life; 
But  I  '11  drap  a  slice  of  liver  or  two, 
My  bloomin'  shrub,  with  you." 

They  carved  in  a  way  that  all  admired, 
Tell  Blood  drawed  iron  at  last,  and  fired. 
It  took  Seth  Bludso  'twixt  the  eyes, 
Which  caused  him  great  surprise. 


440} 


JOHN  HAY     1838-1905 


Then  coats  went  off,  and  all  went  in; 
Shots  and  bad  language  swelled  the  din; 
The  short,  sharp  bark  of  Derringers, 
Like  bull-pups,  cheered  the  furse. 

They  piled  the  stiffs  outside  the  door; 
They  made,  I  reckon,  a  cord  or  more. 
Girls  went  that  winter,  as  a  rule, 
Alone  to  spellin'-school. 

I  Ve  sarched  in  vain,  from  Dan  to  Beer- 
Sheba,  to  make  this  mystery  clear ; 
But  I  end  with  hit  as  I  did  begin, — 
Who  got  the  whisky-skin? 


Hymn  of  the  Knights  Templars 

Mother  of  God !  as  evening  falls 

Upon  the  silent  sea, 
And  shadows  veil  the  mountain  walls, 

We  lift  our  souls  to  thee ! 
From  lurking  perils  of  the  night, 

The  desert's  hidden  harms, 
From  plagues  that  waste,  from  blasts  that  smite, 

Defend  thy  men-at-arms ! 


JOHN  HAY     1838-1905 


Mother  of  God !  thy  starry  smile 

Still  bless  us  from  above! 
Keep  pure  our  souls  from  passion's  guile, 

Our  hearts  from  earthly  love ! 
Still  save  each  soul  from  guilt  apart 

As  stainless  as  each  sword, 
And  guard  undimmed  in  every  heart 

The  image  of  our  Lord ! 

In  desert  march  or  battle's  flame, 

In  fortress  and  in  field, 
Our  war-cry  is  thy  holy  name, 

Thy  love  our  joy  and  shield! 
And  if  we  falter,  let  thy  power 

Thy  stern  avenger  be, 
And  God  forget  us  in  the  hour 

We  cease  to  think  of  thee ! 

Mother  of  God !  the  evening  fades 

On  wave  and  hill  and  lea, 
And  in  the  twilight's  deepening  shades 

We  lift  our  souls  to  thee ! 
In  passion's  stress — the  battle's  strife, 

The  desert's  lurking  harms, 
Maid-Mother  of  the  Lord  of  Life, 

Protect  thy  men-at-arms ! 


448} 


JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL     1839-1908 


My  Maryland 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore,, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door,, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 


449 


JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL     1839-1908 


Come !  't  is  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain, — 
"Sic  semper!"  't  is  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland, 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come!  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
Stalking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 


[  450  ] 


JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL     1839-1908 


I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb; 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum ! 
She  breathes  !     She  burns  !     She  '11  come  !     She  '11 
come ! 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 


[451] 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 


The  Society  upon  the  Stanislaus 

I   reside  at  Table  Mountain,,  and  my  name  is  Truthful 

James ; 

I  am  not  up  to  small  deceit  or  any  sinful  games ; 
And  I  '11  tell  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about  the 

row 
That  broke  up  our  Society  upon  the  Stanislow. 

But  first  I  would  remark,  that  it  is  not  a  proper  plan 
For  any  scientific  gent  to  whale  his  fellowman, 
And,  if  a  member  don't  agree  with  his  peculiar  whim, 
To  lay  for  that  same  member  for  to  "put  a  head"  on  him. 

Now  nothing  could  be  finer  or  more  beautiful  to  see 
Than    the    first    six    months'    proceedings    of   that    same 

Society, 

Till  Brown  of  Calaveras  brought  a  lot  of  fossil  bones 
That  he  found  within  a  tunnel  near  the  tenement  of  Jones. 

Then  Brown  he  read  a  paper,  and  he  reconstructed  there, 
From  those  same  bones,  an  animal  that  was  extremely 

rare ; 
And  Jones  then  asked  the  chair  for  a  suspension  of  the 

rules, 
Till  he  could  prove  that  those  same  bones  was  one  of  his 

lost  mules. 


FRANCIS  BRET  HAUTE     1839-1902 


Then  Brown  he  smiled  a  bitter  smile,  and  said  he  was  at 

fault, 
It   seemed   he   had   been  trespassing   on   Jones's   family 

vault ; 

He  was  a  most  sarcastic  man,  this  quiet  Mr.  Brown, 
And  on  several  occasions  he  had  cleaned  out  the  town. 

Now  I  hold  it  is  not  decent  for  a  scientific  gent 
To  say  another  is  an  ass, — at  least,  to  all  intent ; 
Nor  should  the  individual  who  happens  to  be  meant 
Reply  by  heaving  rocks  at  him,  to  any  great  extent. 

Then  Abner  Dean   of  Angel's   raised  a  point  of  order, 

when 

A  chunk  of  old  red  sandstone  took  him  in  the  abdomen, 
And  he  smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile,  and  curled  up  on 

the  floor, 
And  the  subsequent  proceedings  interested  him  no  more. 

For,,  in  less  time  than  I  write  it,  every  member  did  engage 

In  a  warfare  with  the  remnants  of  a  palaeozoic  age ; 

And  the  way  they  heaved  those  fossils  in  their  anger  was 

a  sin, 
Till   the   skull   of   an   old   mammoth   caved   the   head   of 

Thompson  in. 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say  of  these  improper  games, 
For  I  live  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful 

James ; 

And  I '  ve  told  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about  the  row 
That  broke  up  our  Society  upon  the  Stanislow. 


4-53 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1903 


Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James 
Table  Mountain,  1870 

Which  I  wish  to  remark,, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name; 

And  I  shall  not  deny, 
In  regard  to  the  same, 

What  that  name  might  imply ; 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  childlike, 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third, 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies; 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise ; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  William 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game, 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand: 
It  was  Euchre.  The  same 

He  did  not  understand; 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 

With  the  smile  that  was  childlike  and  bland. 

[  454  ] 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 


Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve, 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve,, 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers, 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 

But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee,, 
And  the  points  that  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see, — 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower, 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "Can  this  be? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labor, — " 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 

I  did  not  take  a  hand, 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been  hiding, 

In  the  game  "he  did  not  understand." 


455] 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 


In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 

He  had  twenty-four  jacks, — 
Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts ; 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper, 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers, — that  's  wax. 

Which  is  why  I  remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, — 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 


Dow's  Flat 

1856 

Dow's  Flat.     That  's  its  name ; 

And  I  reckon  that  you 
Are  a  stranger?     The  same? 

Well,  I  thought  it  was  true, — 

For  thar  is  n't  a  man  on  the  river  as  can't  spot  the  place 
at  first  view. 

It  was  called  after  Dow, — 

Which  the  same  was  an  ass, — 
And  as  to  the  how 

Thet  the  thing  kem  to  pass, — 

Jest  tie  up  your  hoss  to  that  buckeye,  and  sit  ye  down 
here  in  the  grass: 


456  ] 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 


You  see  this  'yer  Dow 

Hed  the  worst  kind  of  luck; 
He  slipped  up  somehow 

On  each  thing  thet  he  struck. 

Why,,   ef  he  'd   a   straddled   thet   fence-rail,   the   derned 
thing  'd  get  up  and  buck. 

He  mined  on  the  bar 

Till  he  could  n't  pay  rates ; 
He  was  smashed  by  a  car 

When  he  tunnelled  with  Bates ; 

And  right  on  the  top  of  his  trouble  kem  his  wife  and  five 
kids  from  the  States. 

It  was  rough, — mighty  rough; 
But  the  boys  they  stood  by, 
And  they  brought  him  the  stuff 

For  a  house,  on  the  sly; 

And  the  old  woman, — well,  she  did  washing,  and  took  on 
when  no  one  was  nigh. 

But  this  'yer  luck  of  Dow's 

Was  so  powerful  mean 
That  the  spring  near  his  house 
Dried  right  up  on  the  green ; 

And  he  sunk  forty  feet  down  for  water,  but  nary  a  drop 
to  be  seen. 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 


Then  the  bar  petered  out, 

And  the  boys  would  n't  stay ; 
And  the  chills  got  about, 

And  his  wife  fell  away; 

But  Dow  in  his  well  kept  a  peggin'  in  his  usual  ridik- 
ilous  way. 

One  day, — it  was  June, — 
And  a  year  ago,  jest, — 
This  Dow  kem  at  noon 

To  his  work  like  the  rest, 

With  a  shovel  and  pick  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  derringer 
hid  in  his  breast. 

He  goes  to  the  well, 

And  he  stands  on  the  brink, 
And  stops  for  a  spell 

Jest  to  listen  and  think: 

For  the  sun  in  his   eyes    (jest  like  this,  sir!)    you  see, 
kinder  made  the  cuss  blink. 

His  two  ragged  gals 

In  the  gulch  were  at  play, 
And  a  gownd  that  was  Sal's 
Kinder  flapped  on  a  bay: 

Xot  much  for  a  man  to  be  leavin',  but  his  all, — as  I  've 
heer'd  the  folks  sav. 


[  458  ] 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 


And — That 's  a  peart  boss 

Thet  you  Ve  got, — ain't  it  now  ? 
What  might  be  her  cost? 

Eh  ?    Oh !— Well,  then,  Dow- 
Let  's  see, — well,  that  forty-foot  grave  was  n't  his,  sir, 
that  day,  anyhow. 

For  a  blow  of  his  pick 

Sorter  caved  in  the  side, 
And  he  looked  and  turned  sick, 
Then  he  trembled  and  cried. 

For  you  see  the  dern  cuss  had  struck — "Water?" — Beg 
your  parding,  young  man — there  you  lied! 

It  was  gold, — in  the  quartz, 

And  it  ran  all  alike ; 
And  I  reckon  five  oughts 

Was  the  worth  of  that  strike ; 

And  that  house  with  the  coopilow  's  his'n, — which  the 
same  is  n't  bad  for  a  Pike. 

Thet  's  why  it  's  Dow's  Flat ; 

And  the  thing  of  it  is, 
That  he  kinder  got  that 

Through  sheer  contrairiness : 

For  't  was   water  the  derned  cuss  was  seekin',  and  his 
luck  made  him  certain  to  miss. 


[459] 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 


Thet  's  so  !     Thar  's  your  way, 

To  the  left  of  yon  tree ; 
But — a — look  h'yur,  say? 

Won't  you  come  up  to  tea? 

No  ?     Well,  then  the  next  time  you  're  passin' ;  and  ask 
after  Dow, — and  thet  's  me. 


"Jim" 

Say  there!     P'r'aps 
Some  on  you  chaps 

Might    know    Jim    Wild? 
Well, — no  offense: 
Thar  ain't  no  sense 

In  gittin'  riled ! 

Jim  was  my  chum 

Up  on  the  Bar: 
That  's  why  I  come 

Down  from  up  yar, 
Lookin'  for  Jim. 
Thank  ye,  sir  !     You 
Ain't  of  that  crew, — 

Blest  if  you  are ! 

Money?     Not  much: 
That  ain't  my  kind ; 

I  ain't  no  such. 

Rum?     I  don't  mind, 

Seem'  it 's  you. 

[480] 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 

Well.,  this  yer  Jim,, — 
Did  you  know  him? 
Jes'  'bout  your  size; 
Same  kind  of  eyes ; — 
Well,  that  is  strange: 

Why,  it  's  two  year 

Since  he  came  here, 
Sick,  for  a  change. 

Well,  here  's  to  us : 

Eh? 
The  h —  you  say ! 

Dead? 
That  little  cuss  ? 

What  makes  you  star' 
You  over  thar? 
Can't  a  man  drop 
's  glass  in  yer  shop 
But  you  must  r'ar? 

It  wouldn't  take 

D — d  much  to  break 
You  and  your  bar. 

Dead ! 

Poor — little — Jim  ! 
Why,  thar  was  me, 
Jones,  and  Bob  Lee, 
Harry  and  Ben, — 
No-account  men: 
Then  to  take  him! 

[461] 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 


Well,  thar — Good-by — 
No  more,  sir — I — 

Eh? 

What 's  that  you  say  ? 
Why,  dern  it! — sho — 
No?  Yes!  By  Joe! 

Sold! 

Sold!     Why,  you  limb., 
You  ornery, 

Derned  old 
Long-legged  Jim. 


Chiquita 

Beautiful!     Sir,  you  may  say  so.     Thar  isn't  her  match 

in  the  county; 

Is  thar,  old  gal, — Chiquita,  my  darling,  my  beauty? 
Feel  of  that  neck,  sir, — thar  's  velvet !    Whoa  !    Steady, — 

ah,  will  you,  you  vixen ! 
Whoa !  I  say.     Jack,  trot  her  out ;  let  the  gentleman  look 

at  her  paces. 

Morgan ! — She  ain't  nothin'  else,  and  I  Ve  got  the  papers 

to  prove  it. 
Sired  by   Chippewa   Chief,  and  twelve  hundred  dollars 

won't  buy  her. 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 


Briggs  of  Tuolumne  owned  her.     Did  you  know  Briggs 

of  Tuolumne? 
Busted  hisself  in  White  Pine,  and  blew  out  his  brains 

down  in  'Frisco? 

Hedn't  no  savey,  hed  Briggs.     Thar,  Jack !  that  '11  do, 

quit  that  foolin' ! 
Nothin'  to  what  she  kin  do,  when  she  's  got  her  work  cut 

out  before  her. 
Hosses  is  bosses,  you  know,  and  likewise,  too,  jockeys  is 

j  ockeys ; 
And  't  ain't  ev'ry  man  as  can  ride  as  knows  what  a  boss 

has  got  in  him. 

Know  the  old  ford  on  the  Fork,  that  nearly  got  Flani- 

gan's  leaders? 
Nasty  in  daylight,  you  bet,  and  a  mighty  rough  ford  in 

low  water ! 
Well,  it  ain't  six  weeks  ago  that  me  and  the  Jedge  and 

his  nevey 
Struck  for  that  ford  in  the  night,  in  the  rain,  and  the 

water  all  around  us; 

Up  to  our  flanks  in  the  gulch,  and  Rattlesnake  Creek 

just  a  bilin', 
Not  a  plank  left  in  the  dam,  and  nary  a  bridge  on  the 

river. 
I  had  the  gray,  and  the  Jedge  had  his  roan,  and  his 

nevey,  Chiquita; 
And  after  us  trundled  the  rocks  jest  loosed  from  top  of 

the  canon. 


463] 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1903 


Lickity,  lickity,  switch,  we  came  to  the  ford,  and  Chi- 

quita 
Buckled  right  down  to  her  wTork,  and,  afore  I  could  yell 

to  her  rider, 
Took  water  jest  at  the  ford;  and  there  was  the  Jedge 

and  me  standing, 
And    twelve    hundred    dollars    of    hoss-flesh    afloat,    and 

a-driftin'  to  thunder ! 

Would  ye  b'lieve  it  ?     That  night,  that  hoss,  that  ar'  filly, 

Chiquita, 
Walked  herself  into  her  stall,  and  stood  there,  all  quiet 

and  dripping: 

Clean  as  a  beaver  or  rat,  with  nary  a  buckle  of  harness, 
Just  as  she  swam  the   Fork, — that  hoss,  that  ar'   filly, 

Chiquita. 

That's  what  I  call  a  hoss!  and — What  did  you  say? — 

Oh  !  the  nevey  ? 
Drownded,  I  reckon, — leastways,  he  never  kem  back  to 

deny  it. 
Ye  see,  the  derned  fool  had  no  seat,  ye  could  n't  have 

made  him  a  rider ; 
And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will  be  boys,  and  hosses — well, 

hosses  is  hosses ! 


[464] 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 


What  the  Engines  Said 
Opening  of  the  Pacific  Railroad 

What  was  it  the  Engines  said, 
Pilots  touching^ — head  to  head 
Facing  on  the  single  track,, 
Half  a  world  behind  each  back? 
This  is  what  the  Engines  said,, 
Unreported  and  unread. 

With  a  prefatory  screech, 
In  a  florid  Western  speech, 
Said  the  engine  from  the  West, 
"I  am  from  Sierra's  crest; 
And,  if  altitude  's  a  test, 
Why,  I  reckon,  it 's  confessed, 
That  I  've  done  my  level  best." 

Said  the  Engine  from  the  East, 
"They  who  work  best  talk  the  least. 
S'pose  you  whistle  down  your  brakes ; 
What  you  've  done  is  no  great  shakes, — 
Pretty  fair, — but  let  our  meeting 
Be  a  different  kind  of  greeting. 
Let  these  folks  with  champagne  stuffing, 
Not  their  Engines,  do  the  puffing. 


[  465 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 


"Listen  !     Where  Atlantic  beats 
Shores  of  snow  and  summer  heats; 
Where  the  Indian  autumn  skies 
Paint  the  woods  with  wampum  dies, — 
I  have  chased  the  flying  sun, 
Seeing  all  he  looked  upon, 
Blessing  all  that  he  has  blest, 
Nursing  in  my  iron  breast 
All  his  vivifying  heat, 
All  his  clouds  about  my  crest ; 
And  before  my  flying  feet 
Every  shadow  must  retreat." 

Said  the  Western  Engine,  "Phew!" 
And  a  long,  low  whistle  blew. 
"Come,  now,  really  that 's  the  oddest 
Talk  for  one  so  very  modest. 
You  brag  of  your  East.     You  do? 
Why,  /  bring  the  East  to  you! 
All  the  Orient,  all  Cathay, 
Find  through  me  the  shortest  way; 
And  the  sun  you  follow  here 
Rises  in  my  hemisphere. 
Really, — if  one  must  be  rude, — 
Length,  my  friend,  ain't  longitude." 


[466] 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE     1839-1902 


Said  the  Union:  "Don't  reflect,  or 
I  '11  run  over  some  Director." 
Said  the  Central:  "I  'm  Pacific; 
But,  when  riled,  I  'm  quite  terrific. 
Yet  to-day  we  shall  not  quarrel, 
Just  to  show  these  folks  this  moral, 
How  two  Engines — in  their  vision — 
Once  have  met  without  collision." 

That  is  what  the  Engines  said, 
Unreported  and  unread; 
Spoken  slightly  through  the  nose, 
With  a  whistle  at  the  close. 


[467] 


ANONYMOUS 


Home  Wounded 

Wheel  me  down  by  the  meadow,, 

Where  no  step  but  thine  will  pass; 
Anchor  me  where  the  shadow 

Skims  o'er  the  billowy  grass: 
Where  the  arbutus  straggles  over 

The  slope  of  the  spreading  hill, 
And  the  souls  of  hidden  violets 

Their  scented  airs  distil. 

Saint,,  with  your  swreet  composure,, 

Lean  your  cool  cheek  'gainst  my  hair; 
My  soul 's  in  the  fierce  exposure 

Of  fields  where  the  dying  are; 
And  even  your  hand  can  never 

Quiet  this  fever  and  pain, 
Or  soften  the  restless  longing 

To  share  in  the  contest  again. 

O,,  to  be  here  so  idle ! 

To  sit  like  a  clod  in  this  chair, 
With  hands  that  ache  for  the  bridle, 

With  heart  away  in  the  war  ! 
Instead  of  the  long  roll  beating 

To  hear  but  the  tinkle  of  vines, 
For  the  rush  and  whirl  of  the  conflict 

Only  the  wail  of  the  pines. 


468] 


ANONYMOUS 


Still  midst  the  sounds  of  summer,, 

Which  freight  the  soft  June  air 
With  tender  slumberous  murmur, 

My  soul  hears  the  trumpet's  blare. 
What  have  I  laid  on  the  altar? 

Only  a  few  drops  of  blood ! 
Small  is  the  gift  to  offer 

For  honor,,  freedom,,  God. 

While  by  your  side  I  dally, 

Still  waits  the  slave  in  his  chain. 
Up,  my  faint  pulse  must  rally 

Once  more  'mid  the  leaden  rain. 
With  kisses  on  lips,  eyes  and  forehead, 

Sign  me  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 
If  my  heart  throb  its  last  for  our  banner, 

Greater  the  gain  than  the  loss. 
If  we  gain — there  '11  bedtime  for  our  wooing, 

In  paths  where  the  wild  roses  nod; 
If  we  lose — I  '11  wait  for  you,  dearest, 

'Neath  the  palms  by  the  mount  of  our  God. 


[469] 


EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL     1841-188T 

The  Fool's  Prayer 

The  royal  feast  was  done;  the  King 
Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 

And  to  his  jester  cried:  "Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer  \" 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 
Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool; 

His  pleading  voice  arose:  "O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 
From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool ; 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin:  but,  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

(  'T  is  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 

Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay; 
'T  is  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 
Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end; 

These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

[470] 


EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL     1841-1887 


"The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept — 
Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung  ? 

The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung? 

"Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all ; 

But  for  our  blunders — oh,,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 

"Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes ; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will;  but  Thou,  O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !" 

The  room  was  hushed ;  in  silence  rose 
The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !" 


The  Open  Window 

My  tower  was  grimly  builded, 

With  many  a  bolt  and  bar, 
"And  here,"  I  thought,  "I  will  keep  my  life 

From  the  bitter  world  afar." 


[471] 


EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL     1841-1887 


Dark  and  chill  was  the  stony  floor, 

Where  never  a  sunbeam  lay, 
And  the  mould  crept  up  on  the  dreary  wall, 

With  its  ghost  touch,  day  by  day. 

One  morn,  in  my  sullen  musings, 

A  flutter  and  cry  I  heard; 
And  close  at  the  rusty  casement 

There  clung  a  frightened  bird. 

Then  back  I  flung  the  shutter 

That  was  never  before  undone, 
And  I  kept  till  its  wings  were  rested 

The  little  weary  one. 

But  in  through  the  open  window, 

Which  I  had  forgot  to  close, 
There  had  burst  a  gush  of  sunshine 

And  a  summer  scent  of  rose. 

For  all  the  while  I  had  burrowed 

There  in  my  dingy  tower, 
Lo !  the  birds  had  sung  and  the  leaves  had  danced 

From  hour  to  sunny  hour. 

And  such  balm  and  warmth  and  beauty 

Came  drifting  in  since  then, 
That  the  window  still  stands  open 

And  shall  never  be  shut  again. 


47*  ] 


EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL     1841-1887 


To  a  Maid  Demure 

Often  when  the  night  is  come,, 
With  its  quiet  group  at  home, 
While  they  broider,  knit,  or  sew, 
Read,  or  chat  in  voices  low, 
Suddenly  you  lift  your  eyes 
WTith  an  earnest  look,  and  wise; 
But  I  cannot  read  their  lore, — 
Tell  me  less,  or  tell  me  more. 

Like  a  picture  in  a  book, 
Pure  and  peaceful  is  your  look, 
Quietly  you  walk  your  ways ; 
Steadfast  duty  fills  the  days. 
Neither  tears  nor  fierce  delights, 
Feverish   days    nor   tossing   nights, 
Any  troublous  dreams  confess, — 
Tell  me  more,  or  tell  me  less. 

Swift  the  weeks  are  on  the  wing ; 
Years  are  brief,  and  love  a  thing 
Blooming,  fading,  like  a  flower; 
Wake  and  seize  the  little  hour. 
Give  me  welcome,  or  farewell; 
Quick!  I  wait!     And  who  can  tell 
What  to-morrow  may  befall, — 
Love  me  more,  or  not  at  all. 


473 


EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL     1841-1887 


Momentous  Words 

What  spiteful  chance  steals  unawares 

Wherever  lovers  come, 
And  trips   the  nimblest  brain  and   scares 

The  bravest  feelings  dumb? 

We  had  one  minute  at  the  gate, 

Before  the  others  came; 
To-morrow  it  would  be  too  late, 

And  whose  would  be  the  blame ! 

I  gazed  at  her,  she  glanced  at  me; 

Alas !  the  time  sped  by : 
"How  warm  it  is  to-day!"  said  she; 

"It  looks  like  rain,"  said  I. 


[  474  ] 


EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL     1841-1887 


The  Lover's  Song 

Lend  me  thy  fillet,  Love ! 

I  would  no  longer  see: 
Cover  mine  eyelids  close  awhile, 

And  make  me  blind  like  thee. 

Then  might  I  pass  her  sunny  face, 

And  know  not  it  was  fair; 
Then  might  I  hear  her  voice,  nor  guess 

Her  starry  eyes  were  there. 

Ah !   banished  so  from  stars  and  sun — 

Why  need  it  be  my  fate  ? 
If  only  she  might  dream  me  good 

And  wise,  and  be  my  mate ! 

Lend  her  thy  fillet,  Love ! 

Let  her  no  longer  see: 
If  there  is  hope  for  me  at  all, 

She  must  be  blind  like  thee. 


475 


EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL     1841-1887 


The  Coup  de  Grace 

If  I  were  very  sure 
That  all  was  over  betwixt  you  and  me — 

That,  while  this  endless  absence  I  endure 
With  but  one  mood,  one  dream,  one  misery 
Of  waiting,  you  were  happier  to  be  free, — 

Then  I  might  find  again 
In  cloud  and  stream  and  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

Yea,  even  in  the  faces  of  my  fellowmen^ 
The  old  companionship ;  and  I  might  know 
Once  more  the  pulse  of  action,  ere  I  go. 

But  now  I  cannot  rest, 
While  this  one  pleading,  querulous  tone  without 

Breaks  in  and  mars  the  music  in  my  breast. 
I  open  the  closed  door — lo !  all  about, 
What  seem  your  lingering  footprints  ;  then  I  doubt. 

Waken  me  from  this  sleep  ! 
Strike  fearless,  let  the  naked  truth-edge  gleam) 

For  while  the  beautiful  old  past  I  keep, 
I  am  a  phantom,  and  all  mortals  seem 
But  phantoms^  and  my  life  fades  as  a  dream. 


[476] 


NORA  PERRY     1841-1896 


After  the  Ball 

They  sat  and  comb'd  their  beautiful  hair., 
Their  long,  bright  tresses,  one  by  one, 

As  they  laugh'd  and  talk'd  in  the  chamber  there, 
After  the  revel  was  done. 

Idly  they  talk'd  of  waltz  and  quadrille, 

Idly  they  laugh'd,  like  other  girls, 
Who  over  the  fire,  when  all  is  still, 

Comb  out  their  braids  and  curls. 

Robe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, 

Knots  of  flowers  and  ribbons,  too, 
Scatter'd  about  in  every  place, 

For  the  revel  is  through. 

And  Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 
The  prettiest  night-gowns  under  the  sun, 

Stockingless,  slipperless,  sit  in  the  night, 
For  the  revel  is  done, — 

Sit  and  comb  their  beautiful  hair, 

Those  wonderful  waves  of  brown  and  gold, 
Till  the  fire  is  out  in  the  chamber  there, 

And  the  little  bare  feet  are  cold. 

Then  out  of  the  gathering  winter  chill, 
All  out  of  the  .bitter  St.  Agnes  weather, 

While  the  fire  is  out  and  the  house  is  still, 
Maud  and  Madge  together, — 


NORA  PERRY     1841-1896 


Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 

The  prettiest  night-gowns  under  the  sun, 

Curtain'd  away  from  the  chilly  night, 
After  the  revel  is  done, — 

Float  along  in  a  splendid  dream, 
To  a  golden  gittern's  tinkling  tune, 

While  a  thousand  lustres  shimmering  stream 
In  a  palace's  grand  saloon. 

Flashing  of  jewels  and  flutter  of  laces, 
Tropical  odors  sweeter  than  musk, 

Men  and  women  with  beautiful  faces, 
And  eyes  of  tropical  dusk; 

And  one  face  shining  out  like  a  star, 
One  face  haunting  the  dreams  of  each, 

And  one  voice,  sweeter  than  others  are, 
Breaking  into  silvery  speech, — 

Telling,  through  lips  of  bearded  bloom, 

An  old,  old  story  over  again, 
As  down  the  royal  banner'd  room, 

To  the  golden  gittern's  strain, 

Two  and  two,  they  dreamily  walk, 
While  an  unseen  spirit  walks  beside, 

And  all  unheard  in  the  lovers'  talk, 
He  claimeth  one  for  a  bride. 


[  478  ] 


NORA  PERRY     1841-1896 


O  Maud  and  Madge,,  dream  on  together,, 
With  never  a  pang  of  jealous  fear! 

For,,  ere  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather 
Shall  whiten  another  year, 

Robed  for  the  bridal,,  and  robed  for  the  tomb, 
Braided  brown  hair  and  golden  tress, 

There  '11  be  only  one  of  you  left  for  the  bloom 
Of  the  bearded  lips  to  press, — 

Only  one  for  the  bridal  pearls, 

The  robe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, — 

Only  one  to  blush  through  her  curls 
At  the  sight  of  a  lover's  face. 

O  beautiful  Madge,  in  your  bridal  white, 
For  you  the  revel  has  just  begun, 

But  for  her  who  sleeps  in  your  arms  to-night 
The  revel  of  Life  is  done ! 

But  robed  and  crown'd  with  your  saintly  bliss, 
Queen  of  heaven  and  bride  of  the  sun, 

O  beautiful  Maud,  you  '11  never  miss 
The  kisses  another  hath  won. 


479 


SIDNEY  LAXIER     1842-1881 


Song  of  the  Chattahoochee 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall., 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain,, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
Tlie  rushes  cried  Abide,  abide, 
The  wilful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall, 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed  Abide,  abide, 

Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 


[480 


SIDNEY  LANIER     1842-1881 


The  chestnut,,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning  with  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 

The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the  smooth  brook-stone 
Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone 
— Crystals  clear  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 
Ruby,  garnet,  and  amethyst — 
Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 
Avail :  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 

Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


481] 


SIDNEY  LANIER     1842-1881 


The  Marshes  of  Glynn 

Glooms  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 
With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that  myriad-cloven 
Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs, — 

Emerald  twilights, — 

Virginal  shy  lights, 

Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the  whisper  of  vows, 
When  lovers  pace  timidly  down  through  the  green  colon 
nades 
Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark  woods, 

Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades, 
That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand-beach  within 

The  wide  sea-marshes  of  Glynn; — 

Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noonday  fire, — 

Wildwood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  desire, 

Chamber  from  chamber  parted  with  wavering  arras  of 

leaves, — 
Cells  for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer  to  the  soul 

that  grieves, 
Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints  through  the 

wood, 
Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with  good; — 

O  braided  dusks  of  the  oak  and  woven  shades  of  the  vine, 
While  the  riotous  noonday  sun  of  the  June-day  long  did 

shine 
Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held  you  fast  in 

mine; 


SIDNEY  LANIER     1843-1881 


But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and  riot  is  rest, 
And  the  sun  is  a-wait  at  the  ponderous  gate  of  the  West, 
And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down  the  wood-aisle  doth  seem 
Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a  dream, — 
Ay,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  the  soul  of 

the  oak, 
And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the  wearisome 

sound  of  the  stroke 
Of  the   scythe   of   time   and   trowel   of   trade    is 

low, 
And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that  I 

know, 
And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great  compass 

within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 

marshes  of  Glynn 
Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they  have  wrought  me 

of  yore 
When   length  was   fatigue,   and  when  breadth   was   but 

bitterness  sore, 
And  when  terror  and  shrinking  and  dreary  unnamable 

pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles  of  the  plain, — 

Oh,  now,  unafraid,  I  am  fain  to  face 

The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 
To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I  am  drawn, 
Where  the  gray  beach  glimmering  runs,  as  a  belt  of  the 
dawn, 

[483] 


SIDNEY  LANIER     1843-1881 


For  a  mete  and  a  mark 

To  the  forest  dark: — 

So: 

Affable  live-oak,  leaning  low, — 

Thus — with  your  favor — soft,  with  a  reverent  hand, 
(Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord  of  the  land!) 
Bending  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I  stand 
On  the  firm-packed  sand, 

Free 
By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world  of  sea. 

Sinuous  southward  and  sinuous  northward  the  shim 
mering  band 
Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of  the  marsh 

to  the  folds  of  the  land. 
Inward   and   outward   to   northward   and   southward  the 

beach-lines  linger  and  curl 
As  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings  to  and  follows 

the  firm  sweet  limbs  of  a  girl. 

Vanishing,  swerving,  evermore  curving  again  into  sight, 
Softly  the  sand-beach  wavers  away  to  a  dim  gray  looping 

of  light. 
And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the  wall  of  the  woods 

stands  high? 
The  world  lies  east:  how  ample,  the  marsh  and  the  sea 

and  the  sky! 
A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist-high,  broad 

in  the  blade, 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a  light  or 

a  shade, 


SIDNEY  LANIER     1842-1881 


Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main. 

Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea  ? 

Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of  sin, 
By  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 
marshes  of  Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  nothing-with 
holding  and  free 

Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  yourselves  to 
the  sea ! 

Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rains  and  the 
sun, 

Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic  man  who  hath 
mightily  won 

God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain 

And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out  of  a  stain. 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery  sod, 
Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God: 
I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen  flies 
In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the  space  'twixt  the  marsh 

and  the  skies: 

By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends  in  the  sod 
I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  greatness  of  God: 
Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  greatness  within 
The  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal  marshes  of  Glynn. 

[485] 


SIDNEY  LAXIER     1842-1881 


And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh:  lo,  out  of  his 

plenty  the  sea 

Pours  fast:  full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood  tide  must  be: 
Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  channels  that  flow 
Here  and  there, 

Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks  and  the 

low-lying  lanes, 

And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins, 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences  flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun ! 

The  creeks  overflow :  a  thousand  rivulets  run 
'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod ;  the  blades  of  the  marsh-grass 

stir; 

Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  westward  whirr ; 
Passeth,  and  all  is  still;  and  the  currents  cease  to  run; 
And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be ! 
The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy; 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height; 
And  it  is  night. 

And  now  from  the  Vast  of  the  Lord  will  the  waters  of 

sleep 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men, 
But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 


486 


SIDNEY  LANIER     1842-1881 


The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that  creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep  ? 
And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth  below  when 

the  tide  comes  in 
On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  marvellous  marshes 

of  Glynn. 


[487] 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER     1844-1909 


A   Woman's  Thought 

I  am  a  woman — therefore  I  may  not 

Call  to  him,  cry  to  him, 

Fly  to  him, 

Bid  him  delay  not ! 

Then  when  he  comes  to  me,  I  must  sit  quiet; 

Still  as  a  stone — 

All  silent  and  cold. 

If  my  heart  riot — 

Crush  and  defy  it ! 

Should  I  grow  bold, 

Say  one  dear  thing  to  him, 

All  my  life  fling  to  him, 

Cling  to  him — 

What  to  atone 

Is  enough  for  my  sinning ! 

This  were  the  cost  to  me, 

This  were  my  winning — 

That  he  were  lost  to  me. 

Not  as  a  lover 

At  last  if  he  part  from  me, 

Tearing  my  heart  from  me, 

Hurt  beyond  cure — 

Calm  and  demure 

Then  must  I  hold  me, 

In  myself  fold  me, 


488 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER     1844-1909 


Lest  he  discover; 
Showing  no  sign  to  him 
By  look  of  mine  to  him 
What  he  has  been  to  me — 
How  my  heart  turns  to  him, 
Follows  him,,  yearns  to  him, 
Prays  him  to  love  me. 

Pity  me,,  lean  to  me., 
Thou  God  above  me ! 


The  River  Inn 

The  night  was  black  and  drear 

Of  the  last  day  of  the  year. 

Two  guests  to  the  river  inn 

Came,  from  the  wide  world's  bound — 

One  with  clangor  and  din, 

The  other  without  a  sound. 

"Now  hurry,  servants  and  host ! 
Get  the  best  that  your  cellars  boast. 
White  be  the  sheets  and  fine, 
And  the  fire  on  the  hearthstone  bright; 
Pile  the  wood,  and  spare  not  the  wine, 
And  call  him  at  morning  light." 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER     1844-1909 


"But  where  is  the  silent  guest? 
In  what  chamber  shall  she  rest? 
In  this!     Should  she  not  go  higher? 
'T  is  damp,  and  the  fire  is  gone." 
"You  need  not  kindle  the  fire, 
You  need  not  call  her  at  dawn." 

Next  morn  he  sallied  forth 
On  his  journey  to  the  North. 
Oh,  bright  the  sunlight  shone 
Through  boughs  that  the  breezes  stir; 
But  for  her  was  lifted  a  stone 
Under  the  churchyard  fir. 


Reform 


Oh,  how  shall  I   help  to  right  the  world  that  is   going 

wrong ! 

And  what  can  I  do  to  hurry  the  promised  time  of  peace ! 
The  day  of  work  is  short  and  the  night  of  sleep  is  long; 
And  whether  to  pray  or  preach,  or  whether  to  sing  a  song, 
To  plow  in  my  neighbor's   field,  or  to  seek  the  golden 

fleece, 
Or  to  sit  with  my  hands  in  my  lap,  and  wish  that  ill 

would  cease ! 


[490 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER     1844-1909 


II 

I   think,   sometimes,  it  were  best  just   to  let  the   Lord 

alone ; 
I  am  sure  some  people  forget  He  was  here  before  they 

came; 
Tho'  they  say  it  is  all  for  His  glory,  't  is  a  good  deal 

more  for  their  own, 
That   they   peddle   their   petty   schemes,   and   blate   and 

babble  and  groan. 
I  sometimes  think  it  were  best,  and  a  man  were  little  to 

blame, 
Should  he  pass  on  his  silent  way  nor  mix  with  the  noisy 

shame. 


Noel 

Star-dust  and  vaporous  light, — 
The  mist  of  worlds  unborn, — 

A  shuddering  in  the  awful  night 
Of  winds  that  bring  the  morn. 

Now  comes  the  dawn:  the  circling  earth; 

Creatures  that  fly  and  crawl; 
And  Man,  that  last,  imperial  birth ; 

And  Christ,  the  flower  of  all. 


491] 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER     1844-1909 

Songs 
I 

Not  from  the  whole  wide  world  I  chose  thee — 
Sweetheart,  light  of  the  land  and  the  sea ! 

The  wide,  wide  world  could  not  inclose  thee, 
For  thou  art  the  whole  wide  world  to  me. 

II 

Years  have  flown  since  I  knew  thee  first., 

And  I  know  thee  as  water  is  known  of  thirst ; 

Yet  I  knew  thee  of  old  at  the  first  sweet  sight, 
And  thou  art  strange  to  me,  Love,  to-night. 


Ah,  Be  Not  False 

Ah,  be  not  false,  sweet  Splendor ! 

Be  true,  be  good; 
Be  wise  as  thou  art  tender; 

Be  all  that  Beauty  should. 

Not  lightly  be  thy  citadel  subdued; 

Not  ignobly,  not  untimely. 
Take  praise  in  solemn  mood; 

Take  love  sublimely. 


[492} 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER     1844-1909 


The  Heroic  Age 

He  speaks  not  well  who  doth  his  time  deplore, 

Naming  it  new  and  little  and  obscure, 

Ignoble  and  unfit  for  lofty  deeds. 

All  times  were  modern  in  the  time  of  them, 

And  this  no  more  than  others.     Do  thy  part 

Here  in  the  living  day,  as  did  the  great 

Who  made  old  days  immortal !     So  shall  men, 

Gazing  long  back  to  this  far-looming  hour, 

Say:  "Then  the  time  when  men  were  truly  men; 

Tho'  wars  grew  less,  their  spirits  met  the  test 

Of  new  conditions;  conquering  civic  wrong; 

Saving  the  state  anew  by  virtuous  lives; 

Guarding  the  country's  honor  as  their  own, 

And  their  own  as  their  country's  and  their  sons'; 

Proclaiming  service  the  one  test  of  worth; 

Defying  leagued  fraud  with  single  truth; 

Knights  of  the  spirit;  warriors  in  the  cause 

Of  justice  absolute  'twixt  man  and  man; 

Not  fearing  loss ;  and  daring  to  be  pure. 

When  error  through  the  land  raged  like  a  pest, 

They  calmed  the  madness  caught  from  mind  to  mind 

By  wisdom  drawn  from  eld,  and  counsel  sane; 

And  as  the  martyrs  of  the  ancient  world 

Gave  Death  for  man,  so  nobly  gave  they  Life : 

Those  the  great  days,  and  that  the  heroic  age." 

Athens,  1896. 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


Dear  Old  London 

When  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89, 

I  chanced  to  spy  in  Oxford  Street  this  tantalizing  sign, — 

"A  Splendid  Horace  cheap  for  Cash !"     Of  course  I  had 

to  look 

Upon  the  vaunted  bargain,  and  it  was  a  noble  book! 
A  finer  one  I  've  never  seen,  nor  can  I  hope  to  see, — 
The  first  edition,  richly  bound,  and  clean  as  clean  can  be ; 
And,  just  to  think,  for  three-pounds-ten  I  might  have  had 

that  Pine, 
When  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89 ! 

Down  at  Noseda's,  in  the  Strand,  I  found,  one  fateful 

day, 

A  portrait  that  I  pined  for  as  only  maniac  may, — 
A  print  of  Madame  Vestris  (she  flourished  years  ago, 
Was    Bartolozzi's    daughter,    and    a    thoroughbred,    you 

know). 
A  clean  and  handsome  print  it  was,  and  cheap  at  thirty 

bob,— 

That  's  what  I  told  the  salesman,  as  I  choked  a  rising  sob ; 
But  I  hung  around  Noseda's  as  it  were  a  holy  shrine, 
When  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89. 

At   Davey's,   in  Great   Russell  Street,  were  autographs 

galore, 

And  Mr.  Davey  used  to  let  me  con  that  precious  store. 
Sometimes  I  read  what  warriors  wrote,  sometimes  a  king's 

command, 
But  oftener  still  a  poet's  verse,  writ  in  a  meagre  hand. 


494] 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


Lamb,,  Byron,,  Addison,  and  Burns,  Pope,  Johnson,,  Swift, 

and  Scott, — 

It  needed  but  a  paltry  sum  to  comprehend  the  lot ; 
Yet,  though  Friend  Davey  marked  'em  down,  what  could 

I  but  decline? 
For  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89. 

Of  antique  swords  and  spears  I  saw  a  vast  and  dazzling 

heap 

That  Curio  Fenton  offered  me  at  prices  passing  cheap; 
And,  oh,  the  quaint  old  bureaus,  and  the  warming-pans 

of  brass, 
And  the  lovely  hideous  freaks  I  found  in  pewter  and  in 

glass ! 
And,   oh,   the   sideboards,   candlesticks,  the   cracked   old 

china  plates, 
The  clocks  and  spoons  from  Amsterdam  that  antedate  all 

dates ! 

Of  such  superb  monstrosities  I  found  an  endless  mine 
When  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89. 

O  ye  that  hanker  after  boons  that  others  idle  by, — 

The  battered  things  that  please  the  soul,  though  they  may 

vex  the  eye, — 

The  silver  plate  and  crockery  all  sanctified  with  grime, 
The  oaken  stuff  that  has  defied  the  tooth  of  envious  Time, 
The  musty  tomes,  the  speckled  prints,  the  mildewed  bills 

of  play, 
And  other  costly  relics  of  malodorous  decay, — 

[495] 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


Ye  onlv  can  appreciate  what  agony  was  mine 
When  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '8Q. 

When,  in  the  course  of  natural  things,  I  go  to  my  reward. 
Let  no  imposing  epitaph  my  martyrdoms  record ; 
Neither  in  Hebrew,,  Latin,,  Greek,  nor  any  classic  tongue, 
Let  my  ten  thousand  triumphs  over  human  griefs  be  sung ; 
But  in  plain  Anglo-Saxon — that  he  may  know  who  seeks 
What  agonizing  pangs  I  've  had  while  on  the  hunt  for 

freaks- 
Let  there  be  writ  upon  the  slab  that  marks  my  grave  this 

line: 
"Deceased  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89." 


In  Amsterdam 

Mynheer  Hans  Von  Der  Bloom  has  got 

A  majazin  in  Kalverstraat, 

Where  one  may  buy  for  sordid  gold 

Wares  quaint  and  curious,  new  and  old. 

Here  are  antiquities  galore, — 

The  jewels  which  Dutch  monarchs  wore, 

Swords,  teacups,  helmets,  platters,  clocks, 

Bright  Dresden  jars,  dull  Holland  crocks, 

And  all  those  joys  I  might  rehearse 

That  please  the  eye,  but  wreck  the  purse. 


496 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


I  most  admired  an  ancient  bed,, 
With  ornate  carvings  at  its  head. — 
A  massive  frame  of  dingy  oak, 
Whose  curious  size  and  mould  bespoke 
Prodigious  age.     "How  muchr"  I  cried. 
"Ein  tousand  gildens,"  Hans  replied; 
And  then  the  honest  Dutchman  said 
A  king  once  owned  that  glorious  bed, — 
King  Fritz  der  Foorst,  of  blessed  fame, 
Had  owned  and  slept  within  the  same ! 

Then  long  I  stood  and  mutely  gazed. 
By  reminiscent  splendors  dazed. 
And  I  had  bought  it  right  away, 
Had  I  the  wherewithal  to  pay. 
But,  lacking  of  the  needed  pelf, 
I  thus  discoursed  within  myself: 
"O  happy  Holland !  where  's  the  bliss 
That  can  approximate  to  this 
Possession  of  the  rare  antique 
Which  maniacs  hanker  for  and  seek  ? 
My  native  land  is  full  of  stuff 
That 's  good,  but  is  not  old  enough. 
Alas !  it  has  no  oaken  beds 
Wherein  have  slumbered  royal  heads, 
Xo  relic  on  whose  face  we  see 
The  proof  of  grand  antiquity." 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


Thus  reasoned  I  a  goodly  spell 
Until,  perchance,  my  vision  fell 
Upon  a  trademark  at  the  head 
Of  Fritz  der  Foorst's  old  oaken  bed, — 
A  rampant  wolverine,  and  round 
This  strange  device  these  words  I  found 
"Patent  Antique.     Birkey  &  Gay, 
Grand  Rapids,  Michigan,  U.  S.  A." 

At  present  I  'm  not  saying  much 
About  the  simple,  guileless  Dutch; 
And  as  it  were  a  loathsome  spot 
I  keep  away  from  Kalverstraat, 
Determined  when  I  want  a  bed 
In  which  hath  slept  a  royal  head 
I  '11  patronize  no  middleman, 
But  deal  direct  with  Michigan. 


The  Bibliomaniac 's  Prayer 

Keep  me,  I  pray,  in  wisdom's  way 

That  I  may  truths  eternal  seek; 
I  need  protecting  care  to-day, — 

My  purse  is  light,  my  flesh  is  weak. 
So  banish  from  my  erring  heart 

All  baleful  appetites  and  hints 
Of  Satan's  fascinating  art, 

Of  first  editions,  and  of  prints. 


[498 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


Direct  me  in  some  godly  walk 

Which  leads  away  from  bookish  strife, 
That  I  with  pious  deed  and  talk 

May  extra-illustrate  my  life. 

But  if,  O  Lord,  it  pleaseth  Thee 

To  keep  me  in  temptation's  way, 
I  humbly  ask  that  I  may  be 

Most  notably  beset  to-day; 
Let  my  temptation  be  a  book, 

Which  I  shall  purchase,  hold,  and  keep, 
Whereon  when  other  men  shall  look, 

They  '11  wail  to  know  I  got  it  cheap. 
Oh,  let  it  such  a  volume  be 

As  in  rare  copperplates  abounds, 
Large  paper,  clean,  and  fair  to  see, 

Uncut,  unique,  unknown  to  Lowndes. 


Dibdin's  Ghost 

Dear  wife,  last  midnight,  whilst  I  read 

The  tomes  you  so  despise, 
A  spectre  rose  beside  the  bed, 

And  spake  in  this  true  wise : 
"From  Canaan's  beatific  coast 

I  Ve  come  to  visit  thee, 
For  I  am  Frognall  Dibdin's  ghost," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 


[499 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


I  bade  him  welcome,  and  we  twain 

Discussed  with  buoyant  hearts 
The  various  things  that  appertain 

To  bibliomaniac  arts. 
"Since  you  are  fresh  from  t'  other  side, 

Pray  tell  me  of  that  host 
That  treasured  books  before  they  died/' 

Says  I  to  Dibdiii's  ghost. 

"They  've  entered  into  perfect  rest; 

For  in  the  life  they  've  won 
There  are  no  auctions  to  molest, 

No  creditors  to  dun. 
Their  heavenly  rapture  has  no  bounds 

Beside  that  jasper  sea; 
It  is  a  joy  unknown  to  Lowndes," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 

Much  I  rejoiced  to  hear  him  speak 

Of  biblio-bliss  above, 
For  I  am  one  of  those  who  seek 

What  bibliomaniacs  love. 
"But  tell  me,  for  I  long  to  hear 

What  doth  concern  me  most, 
Are  wives  admitted  to  that  sphere?" 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 

"The  women  folk  are  few  up  there; 

For  't  were  not  fair,  you  know, 
That  they  our  heavenly  joy  should  share 

Who  vex  us  here  below. 

[500] 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


The  few  are  those  who  have  been  kind 

To  husbands  such  as  we; 
They  knew  our  fads.,  and  did  n't  mind/' 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 

"But  what  of  those  who  scold  at  us 

When  we  would  read  in  bed  ? 
Or,  wanting  victuals.,  make  a  fuss 

If  we  buy  books  instead? 
And  what  of  those  who  Ve  dusted  not 

Our  motley  pride  and  boast,, — 
Shall  they  profane  that  sacred  spot?" 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 

"Oh,  no !  they  tread  that  other  path, 

Which  leads  where  torments  roll, 
And  worms,  yes,  bookworms,  vent  their  wrath 

Upon  the  guilty  soul. 
Untouched  of  bibliomaniac  grace, 

That  saveth  such  as  we, 
They  wallow  in  that  dreadful  place," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 

"To  my  dear  wife  will  I  recite 

What  things  I  Ve  heard  you  say; 
She  '11  let  me  read  the  books  by  night 

She  's  let  me  buy  by  day. 
For  we  together  by  and  by 

Would  join  that  heavenly  host; 
She  's  earned  a  rest  as  well  as  I," 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 

[501] 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


The  Tea-Gown 

My  lady  has  a  tea-gown 

That  is  wondrous  fair  to  see,, — 
It  is  flounced  and  ruffed  and  plaited  and  puffed, 

As  a  tea-gown  ought  to  be ; 
And  I  thought  she  must  be  jesting 

Last  night  at  supper  when 
She  remarked^  by  chance,  that  it  came  from  France, 

And  had  cost  but  two  pounds  ten. 

Had  she  told  me  fifty  shillings, 

I  might  (and  would  n't  you?) 
Have  referred  to  that  dress  in  a  way  folks  express 

By  an  eloquent  dash  or  two; 
But  the  guileful  little  creature 

Knew  well  her  tactics  when 
She  casually  said  that  that  dream  in  red 

Had  cost  but  two  pounds  ten. 

Yet  our  home  is  all  the  brighter 

For  that  dainty,  sentient  thing, 
That  floats  away  where  it  properly  may, 

And  clings  where  it  ought  to  cling; 
And  I  count  myself  the  luckiest 

Of  all  us  married  men 
That  I  have  a  wife  whose  joy  in  life 

Is  a  gown  at  two  pounds  ten. 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


It  is  n't  the  gown  compels  me 

Condone  this  venial  sin; 
It 's  the  pretty  face  above  the  lace, 

And  the  gentle  heart  within. 
And  with  her  arms  about  me 

I  say,,  and  say  again, 
"  'T  was  wondrous  cheap/' — and  I  think  a  heap 

Of  that  gown  at  two  pounds  ten ! 


The  Little  Peach 

A  little  peach  in  the  orchard  grew, — 
A  little  peach  of  emerald  hue ; 
Warmed  by  the  sun  and  wet  by  the  dew, 
It  grew. 

One  day,  passing  that  orchard  through^ 
That  little  peach  dawned  on  the  view 
Of  Johnny  Jones  and  his  sister  Sue — 
Them  two. 

Up  at  that  peach  a  club  they  threw — 
Down  from  the  stem  on  which  it  grew 
Fell  that  peach  of  emerald  hue. 
Mon  Dieu! 

John  took  a  bite  and  Sue  a  chew, 
And  then  the  trouble  began  to  brew, — 
Trouble  the  doctor  could  n't  subdue. 
Too  true ! 

[  503] 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


Under  the  turf  where  the  daisies  grew 
They  planted  John  and  his  sister  Sue, 
And  their  little  souls  to  the  angels  flew, — 
Boo  hoo ! 

What  of  that  peach  of  the  emerald  hue, 
Warmed  by  the  sun,  and  wet  by  the  dew  ? 
Ah,  well,  its  mission  on  earth  is  through. 
Adieu ! 


Lydia  Dick 

When  I  was  a  boy  at  college, 
Filling  up  with  classic  knowledge, 

Frequently  I  wondered  why 
Old  Professor  Demas  Bentley 
Used  to  praise  so  eloquently 

"Opera  Horatii." 

Toiling  on  a  season  longer 

Till  my  reasoning  powers  got  stronger, 

As  my  observation  grew, 
I  became  convinced  that  mellow, 
Massic-loving  poet  fellow, 

Horace,  knew  a  thing  or  two. 


[504} 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


Yes,  we  sophomores  figured  duly 
That,  if  we  appraised  him  truly,, 

Horace  must  have  been  a  brick; 
And  no  wonder  that  with  ranting 
Rhymes  he  went  a-gallivanting 

Round  with  sprightly  Lydia  Dick ! 

For  that  pink  of  female  gender 
Tall  and  shapely  was,  and  slender, 

Plump  of  neck  and  bust  and  arms ; 
While  the  raiment  that  invested 
Her  so  jealously  suggested 

Certain  more  potential  charms. 

Those  dark  eyes  of  hers  that  fired  him, 
Those  sweet  accents  that  inspired  him, 

And  her  crown  of  glorious  hair, — 
These  things  baffle  my  description: 
I  should  have  a  fit  conniption 

If  I  tried;  so  I  forbear. 

Maybe  Lydia  had  her  betters; 
Anyway,,  this  man  of  letters 

Took  that  charmer  as  his  pick. 
Glad — yes,  glad  I  am  to  know  it! 
I,  a  fin  de  siecle  poet, 

Sympathize  with  Lydia  Dick! 


505} 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


Often  in  my  arbor  shady 
I  fall  thinking  of  that  lady, 

And  the  pranks  she  used  to  play ; 
And  I  'm  cheered, — for  all  we  sages 
Joy  when  from  those  distant  ages 

Lydia  dances  down  our  way. 

Otherwise  some  folks  might  wonder, 
With  good  reason,  why  in  thunder 

Learned  professors,  dry  and  prim, 
Find  such  solace  in  the  giddy 
Pranks  that  Horace  played  with  Liddy 

Or  that  Liddy  played  on  him. 

Still  this  world  of  ours  rejoices 
In  those  ancient  singing  voices, 

And  our  hearts  beat  high  and  quick, 
To  the  cadence  of  old  Tiber 
Murmuring  praise  of  roistering  Liber 

And  of  charming  Lydia  Dick. 

Still  Digentia,  downward  flowing, 
Prattleth  to  the  roses  blowing 

By  the  dark,  deserted  grot. 
Still  Soracte,  looming  lonely, 
Watcheth  for  the  coming  only 

Of  a  ghost  that  cometh  not. 


506] 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


The  Preference  Declared 
Horace  Ode  I.  38 

Boy,  I  detest  the  Persian  pomp; 

I  hate  those  linden-bark  devices ; 
And  as  for  roses,  holy  Moses  ! 

They  can't  be  got  at  living  prices! 
Myrtle  is  good  enough  for  us, — 

For  you,  as  bearer  of  my  flagon ; 
For  me,  supine  beneath  this  vine, 

Doing  my  best  to  get  a  jag  on ! 


Grandma  s  Prayer 

I  pray  that,  risen  from  the  dead, 

I  may  in  glory  stand — 
A  crown,  perhaps,  upon  my  head, 

But  a  needle  in  my  hand. 

I  've  never  learned  to  sing  or  play, 

So  let  no  harp  be  mine ; 
From  birth  unto  my  dying  day, 

Plain  sewing  's  been  my  line. 

Therefore,  accustomed  to  the  end 
To  plying  useful  stitches, 

I  '11  be  content  if  asked  to  mend 
The  little  angels'  breeches. 


[507] 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


The  Duel 

The  gingham  dog  and  the  calico  cat 

Side  by  side  on  the  table  sat; 

'T  was  half-past  twelve,  and  (what  do  you  think!) 

Nor  one  nor  t'  other  had  slept  a  wink ! 

The  old  Dutch  clock  and  the  Chinese  plate 

Appeared  to  know  as  sure  as  fate 
There  was  going  to  be  a  terrible  spat. 

(/  was  n't  there;  I  simply  state 

What  was  told  to  me  by  the  Chinese  plate!) 

The  gingham  dog  went  "bow-wow-wow !" 
And  the  calico  cat  replied  "mee-ow !" 
The  air  was  littered,,  an  hour  or  so, 
With  bits  of  gingham  and  calico, 

While  the  old  Dutch  clock  in  the  chimney-place 

Up  with  its  hands  before  its  face, 
For  it  always  dreaded  a  family  row ! 

(Never  mind:  I  'm  only  telling  you 

What  the  old  Dutch  clock  declares  is  true!) 

The  Chinese  plate  looked  very  blue, 
And  wailed,  "Oh,  dear !  what  shall  we  do !" 
But  the  gingham  dog  and  the  calico  cat 
WTallowed  this  way  and  tumbled  that, 
Employing  every  tooth  and  claw 
In  the  awfullest  way  you  ever  saw — 
And,  oh !  how  the  gingham  and  calico  flew ! 
(Don't  fancy  I  exaggerate — 
/  got  my  news  from  the  Chinese  plate!) 


508] 


EUGENE  FIELD     1850-1895 


Next  morning  where  the  two  had  sat 
They  found  no  trace  of  dog  or  cat; 
And  some  folks  think  unto  this  day 
That  burglars  stole  that  pair  away  ! 
But  the  truth  about  the  cat  and  pup 
Is  this:  they  ate  each  other  up ! 
Now  what  do  you  really  think  of  that ! 
(The  old  Dutch  clock  it  told  me  so, 
And  that  is  how  I  came  to  know.) 


[509] 


MARC  COOK     1854-1882 


Her  Opinion  of  the  Play 

Do  I  like  it?     I  think  it  just  splendid! 

You  see  how  I  speak  out  my  mind,, 
And  I  think  't  would  be  better  if  men  did 

The  same  when  they  feel  so  inclined. 
But  no,,  you  're  all  dumb  as  an  oyster, 

You  critics  who  sit  here  and  stare,, 
Looking  grave  as  a  monk  in  his  cloister — 

You  have  n't  laughed  once.,  I  declare ! 

I  'm  sure  there  's  been  lots  that  is  jolly,, 

And  more  that  's  exciting,  you  '11  own ; 
Why,  I  pity  the  poor  hero's  folly 

As  if  he  were  some  one  I  'd  known ! 
And  was  n't  it  grand  and  heroic 

When  he  shielded  that  friendless  girl  Sue? 
'T  would  have  quickened  the  pulse  of  a  stoic, 

But  of  course,  sir,  it  could  n't  rouse  you ! 

And  then  for  the  villain  De  Lancey — 

Now,  does  n't  he  act  with  a  dash  ? 
Such  art  and  such  delicate  fancy, 

And — did  you  observe  his  moustache  ? 
He  made  my  very  blood  tingle 

When  he  threw  himself  down  on  his  knees — 
Do  you  know  if  he's  married  or  single? 

Yes,  the  villain — there,  laugh  if  you  please ! 


510 


MARC  COOK     1854-1882 


I  admit  I  know  nothing  of  "action," 

Of  "unities/'  "plot/'  and  the  rest, 
But  the  play  gives  complete  satisfaction, 

And  that  is  a  good  enough  test. 
Yes,  I  know  you  will  pick  it  to  pieces 

In  your  horribly  savage  review, 
But,  for  me,  its  interest  increases 

Because  't  will  be  censured  by  you ! 

I  should  think  'twould  be  awfully  jolly 

For  the  author  to  make  such  a  hit ; 
How  he  pricks  all  the  bubbles  of  folly 

With  his  sharp  little  needle  of  wit ! 
I  am  sure  he  is  perfectly  charming, 

Or  he  could  never  write  such  a  play — 
(I  declare,  sir,  it  's  really  alarming 

To  have  you  sit  staring  that  way!) 

And  oh,  if  I  only  were  brighter, 

And  not  such  a  poor  little  dunce, 
I  should  so  like  to  meet  with  the  writer, 

For  I  know  I  should  love  him  at  once. 
Yes,  I  should,  though  you  think  it  audacious, 

And  I  'd  tell  him  so,  too,  which  is  more, 
And — you  are  the  author  ? — good  gracious  ! 

Why  did  n't  you  say  so  before  ? 


511  ] 


HENRY  CUTLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 


The  Way  to  Arcady 

Oh,  what  's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady; 
Oh,  what 's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry? 

Oh,  what 's  the  way  to  Arcady  ? 
The  spring  is  rustling  in  the  tree — 
The  tree  the  wind  is  blowing  through — 

It  sets  the  blossoms  flickering  white. 
I  knew  not  skies  could  burn  so  blue 

Nor  any  breezes  blow  so  light. 
They  blow  an  old-time  way  for  me, 
Across  the  world  to  Arcady. 

Oh,  what 's  the  way  to  Arcady  ? 
Sir  Poet,  with  the  rusty  coat, 
Quit  mocking  of  the  song-bird's  note. 
How  have  you  heart  for  any  tune, 
You  with  the  wayworn  russet  shoon? 
Your  scrip,  a-swinging  by  your  side, 
Gapes  with  a  gaunt  mouth  hungry-wide. 
I  '11  brim  it  well  with  pieces  red, 
If  you  will  tell  the  way  to  tread. 

Oh,  I  am  bound  for  Arcady, 
And  if  you  but  keep  pace  with  me 
You  tread  the  way  to  Arcady. 


[512 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 


And  where  away  lies  Arcady, 

And  how  long  yet  may  the  j  ourney  be  ? 

Ah,  that  (quoth  he)  I  do  not  know — 
Across  the  clover  and  the  snow — • 
Across  the  frost,  across  the  flowers — 
Through  summer  seconds  and  winter  hours, 
I  've  trod  the  way  my  whole  life  long, 

And  know  not  now  where  it  may  be; 
My  guide  is  but  the  stir  to  song, 
That  tells  me  I  cannot  go  wrong, 

Or  clear  or  dark  the  pathway  be 

Upon  the  road  to  Arcady. 

But  how  shall  I  do  who  cannot  sing? 

I  was  wont  to  sing,  once  on  a  time — 
There  is  never  an  echo  now  to  ring 

Remembrance  back  to  the  trick  of  rhyme. 

'T  is  strange  you  cannot  sing  (quoth  he), 
The  folk  all  sing  in  Arcady. 

But  how  may  he  find  Arcady 
Who  hath  nor  youth  nor  melody  ? 

What,  know  you  not,  old  man  (quoth  he)  — 
Your  hair  is  white,  your  face  is  wise — 
That  Love  must  kiss  that  Mortal's  eyes 

Who  hopes  to  see  fair  Arcady? 


513 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 


No  gold  can  buy  you  entrance  there; 
But  beggared  Love  may  go  all  bare — 
No  wisdom  won  with  weariness; 
But  Love  goes  in  with  Folly's  dress — 
No  fame  that  wit  could  ever  win; 
But  only  Love  may  lead  Love  in 
To  Arcady,  to  A  ready. 

Ah,  woe  is  me,  through  all  my  days 

Wisdom  and  wealth  I  both  have  got, 
And  fame  and  name,  and  great  men's  praise ; 

But  Love,  ah,  Love !  I  have  it  not. 
There  was  a  time,  when  life  was  new — 

But  far  away,  and  half  forgot — 
I  only  know  her  eyes  were  blue; 

But  Love — I  fear  I  knew  it  not. 
We  did  not  wed,  for  lack  of  gold, 
And  she  is  dead,  and  I  am  old. 
All  things  have  come  since  then  to  me, 
Save  Love,  all,  Love !  and  Arcady. 

Ah,  then  I  fear  we  part  (quoth  he), 
My  way  's  for  Love  and  Arcady. 

But  you,  you  fare  alone,  like  me; 

The  gray  is  likewise  in  your  hair. 

What  love  have  you  to  lead  you  there, 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady? 


614 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 


Ah,  no,  not  lonely  do  I  fare; 

My  true  companion  's  Memory. 
With  Love  he  fills  the  Spring-time  air; 

With  Love  he  clothes  the  Winter  tree. 
Oh,  past  this  poor  horizon's  bound 

My  song  goes  straight  to  one  who  stands — 
Her  face  all  gladdening  at  the  sound — 

To  lead  me  to  the  Spring-green  lands, 
To  wander  with  enlacing  hands. 
The  songs  within  my  breast  that  stir 
Are  all  of  her,  are  all  of  her. 
My  maid  is  dead  long  years  (quoth  he), 
She  waits  for  me  in  Arcady. 

Oh,  yon  's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady; 
Oh,  yon  's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry. 


[515 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUXXER     1855-189G 

She  Was  a  Beauty 

She  was  a  beauty  in  the  days 
When  Madison  was  President: 

And  quite  coquettish  in  her  ways — 
On  conquests  of  the  heart  intent. 

Grandpapa,  on  his  right  knee  bent, 
Wooed  her  in  stiff,,  old-fashioned  phrase — 
She  was  a  beauty  in  the  days 

When  Madison  was  President. 

And  when  your  roses  where  hers  went 
Shall  go,  my  Rose,,  who  date  from  Hayes, 

I  hope  you  '11  wear  her  sweet  content 
Of  whom  tradition  lightly  says: 
She  was  a  beauty  in  the  days 

When  Madison  was  President. 


Feminine 

She  might  have  known  it  in  the  earlier  Spring, 
That  all  my  heart  with  vague  desire  was  stirred; 

And,  ere  the  Summer  winds  had  taken  wing, 
I  told  her ;  but  she  smiled  and  said  no  word. 

The  Autumn's  eager  hand  his  red  gold  grasped, 
And  she  was  silent ;  till  from  skies  grown  drear 

Fell  soft  one  fine,  first  snow-flake,  and  she  clasped 
My  neck  and  cried,  "Love,  we  have  lost  a  year !" 


516 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUXNER     1855-1896 

Candor 
October — A    Wood 

"I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say/'  she  said,, 
And  she  stood  up  looking  uncommonly  tall; 
"You  are  going  to  speak  of  the  hectic  Fall, 

And  say  you  're  sorry  the  summer  's  dead. 
And  no  other  summer  was  like  it,  you  know, 
And  can  I  imagine  what  made  it  so? 

Now  aren't  you,,  honestly?"     "Yes/'  I  said. 

"I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say/'  she  said; 

"You  are  going  to  ask  if  I  forget 

That  day  in  June  when  the  woods  were  wet, 
And  you  carried  me" — here  she  dropped  her  head- 

"Over  the  creek;  you  are  going  to  say, 

Do  I  remember  that  horrid  day. 
Now  are  n't  you,  honestly?"     "Yes,"  I  said. 

"I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say,"  she  said ; 
"You  are  going  to  say  that  since  that  time 
You  have  rather  tended  to  run  to  rhyme, 

And" — her  clear  glance  fell  and  her  cheek  grew 

red— 

"And  have  I  noticed  your  tone  was  queer  ? — 
Why,  everybody  has  seen  it  here ! — 

Now  are  n't  you,  honestly?"     "Yes,"  I  said. 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 

"I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say/'  I  said; 

"You  're  going  to  say  you  've  been  much  annoyed, 
And  I  'm  short  of  tact — you  will  say  devoid — 

And  I  'm  clumsy  and  awkward,  and  call  me  Ted, 
And  I  bear  abuse  like  a  dear  old  lamb, 
And  you  '11  have  me,  anyway,  j  ust  as  I  am. 

Now  are  n't  you,  honestly  ?" 
"Ye-es,"  she  said. 


Wed 

For  these  white  arms  about  my  neck — 

For  the  dainty  room,  with  its  ordered  grace — 

For  my  snowy  linen  without  a  fleck — 

For  the  tender  charm  of  this  uplift  face — 

For  the  softened  light  and  the  homelike  air — 

The  low  luxurious  cannel  fire — 
The  padded  ease  of  my  chosen  chair — 

The  devoted  love  that  discounts  desire — 

I  sometimes  think,  when  Twelve  is  struck 
By  the  clock  on  the  mantel,  tinkling  clear, 

I  would  take — and  thank  the  gods  for  the  luck — 
One  single  hour  with  the  boys  and  the  beer. 

Where  the  sawdust  scent  of  a  cheap  saloon 
Is  mingled  with  malt;  where  each  man  smokes, 

Where  they  sing  the  street  songs  out  of  tune, 
Talk  Art,  and  bandy  ephemeral  jokes. 


518 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 

By  Jove,  I  do !     And  all  the  time 

I  know  not  a  man  that  is  there  to-night 

But  would  barter  his  brains  to  be  where  I  'm — 
And  I  'm  well  aware  that  the  beggars  are  right. 


The  Chaperon 

I  take  my  chaperon  to  the  play — 
She  thinks  she  's  taking  me. 

And  the  gilded  youth  who  owns  the  box, 
A  proud  young  man  is  he — 

But  how  would  his  young  heart  be  hurt 
If  he  could  only  know 
That  not  for  his  sweet  sake  I  go 
Nor  yet  to  see  the  trifling  show; 

But  to  see  my  chaperon  flirt. 

Her  eyes  beneath  her  snowy  hair 
They  sparkle  young  as  mine; 

There  's  scarce  a  wrinkle  in  her  hand 
So  delicate  and  fine. 

And  when  my  chaperon  is  seen, 
They  come  from  everywhere — 
The  dear  old  boys  with  silvery  hair, 
With  old-time  grace  and  old-time  air, 

To  greet  their  old-time  queen. 

[519] 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNKER     1855-1896 

They  bow  as  my  young  Midas  here 
Will  never  learn  to  bow 

(The  dancing-masters  do  not  teach 
That  gracious  reverence  now)  ; 

With  voices  quavering  just  a  bit. 
They  play  their  old  parts  through, 
They  talk  of  folk  who  used  to  woo, 
Of  hearts  that  broke  in  'fifty-two — 

Now  none  the  worse  for  it. 

And  as  those  aged  crickets  chirp 
I  watch  my  chaperon's  face, 

And  see  the  dear  old  features  take 
A  new  and  tender  grace — 

And  in  her  happy  eyes  I  see 
Her  youth  awakening  bright, 
With  all  its  hope,  desire,  delight — 
Ah,  me !    I  wish  that  I  were  quite 

As  young — as  young  as  she ! 


Choke y  Einstein 

Pharaoh,  King  of  Egypt's  land, 

Held  you  in  his  cruel  hand, 

Till  the  Appointed  of  the  Lord 

Led  you  forth  and  drowned  his  horde. 

Cushan,  Eglon's  Moabites, 

Jabin,  then  the  Midianites, 

[520] 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 


Ammonite  and  Philistine 

Held  you,  by  decree  divine. 

Shisliak  spoiled  you — but  the  list 

Fades  in  dim  tradition's  mist — 

And  on  history's  page  we  see 

One  long  tale  of  misery, 

Century  after  century  through — 

Chains  and  lashes  for  the  Jew. 

Haman  and  Antiochus, 

Herod,  Roman  Socius, 

Spoiled  you,  crushed  you,  various  ways, 

Till  the  dawn  of  Christian  days ; 

Since  which  time  your  wrongs  and  shame 

Have  remained  about  the  same. 

Whipped  and  chained,  your  teeth  pulled  out 

English  cat  and  Russian  knout 

Made  familiar  with  your  back — 

When  you  were  n't  upon  the  rack — 

Marked  for  scorn  of  Christian  men; 

Pilfered,  taxed,  and  taxed  again ; 

Pilloried,  prisoned,  burnt  and  stoned, 

Stripped  of  even  the  clothes  you  owned; 

Child  of  Torture,  Son  of  Shame, 

Robbed  of  even  a  father's  name — 

In  this  year  of  Christian  grace, 

What  's  your  state  and  what  's  your  place  ? 

Why,  you  're  rich  and  strong  and  gay — 

Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Broadway ! 


[  521  ] 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 

Myriad  signs  along  the  street 
Israelitish  names  repeat. 
Lichtenstein  and  Morgenroth 
Sell  the  pants  and  sell  the  coat ; 
Minzesheimer,  Isaacs,  Meyer, 
Levy,  Lehman,  Simon,  Speyer — 
These  may  just  suggest  a  few 
Specimens  of  Broadway  Jew — 
And  these  gentlemen  have  made 
Quite  their  own  the  Dry-gootz  Trade. 
Surely  you  're  on  top  to-day, 
Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Broadway! 

Fat  and  rich  you  are,  and  loud; 
Fond  of  being  in  a  crowd; 
Fond  of  diamonds  and  rings; 
Fond  of  haberdashers'  things; 
Fond  of  color,  fond  of  noise ; 
Fond  of  treating  "owl  der  boys" 
(Yet,  it  's  only  fair  to  state, 
For  yourself,  most  temperate)  ; 
Fond  of  women,,  fond  of  song; 
Fond  of  bad  cigars,  and  strong; 
Fond,  too  much,  of  Brighton's  Race 
(Where  you  're  wholly  out  of  place, 
For  no  Jew  in  Time's  long  course 
Knew  one  thing  about  a  horse)  ; 
Fond  of  life,  and  fond  of  fun 
(Once  your  "beezness"  wholly  done)  ; 


522 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 

Open-handed,  generous,  free, 
Full  of  Christian  charity 
(Far  more  full  than  he  who  pokes 
At  your  avarice  his  jokes)  ; 
Fond  of  friends,  and  ever  kind 
To  the  sick  and  lame  and  blind 
(And,  though  loud  you  else  may  be, 
Silent  in  your  charity)  ; 
Fond  of  Mrs.  Einstein  and 
Her  too-numerous  infant  band, 
Ever  willing  they  should  share 
Your  enjoyment  everywhere — 
What  of  you  is  left  to  say, 
Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Broadway? 

Though  you  're  spurned  in  some  hotels, 

You  have  kin  among  the  swells — 

Great  musicians,  poets  true, 

Painters,  singers  not  a  few, 

Own  their  cousinship  to  you: 

And  all  England,  so  they  say, 

Yearly  blooms  on  Primrose  Day 

All  in  memory  of  a  Jew 

Of  the  self-same  race  as  you; 

Greatest  leader  ever  known 

Since  the  Queen  came  to  her  throne ; 

Bismarck's  only  equal  foe, 

With  a  thrust  for  every  blow, 

One  who  rose  from  place  to  place 


HENRY  CUTLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 

To  lead  the  Anglo-Saxon  race, 
One  whose  statecraft  wise  and  keen 
Made  an  Empress  of  a  Queen — 
You  Ye  your  share  in  Primrose  Day, 
Chakey  Einstein,,  owff  Broadway ! 

Well,  good  friend,  we  look  at  you 
And  behold  the  Conquering  Jew: 
In  despite  of  all  the  years 
Filled  with  agonies  and  fears ; 
In  despite  of  stake  and  chain; 
In  despite  of  Rome  and  Spain; 
'Spite  of  prison,  rack,  and  lash, 
You  are  here  and  you  've  the  cash : 
You  are  Trade's  uncrowned  king — 
You  are  mostly  everything — 
Only  one  small  joke,  O  Jew! 
Has  the  Christian  world  on  you — 
When  your  son,  your  first-born  boy, 
Solomon,  your  fond  heart's  joy, 
Grows  to  manhood's  years,  he  '11  wed 
One  a  Christian  born  and  bred; 
Blue  of  blood,  of  lineage  old, 
Who  will  take  him  for  his  gold — 
That  's  not  all — so  far  the  joke 
Is  upon  the  Christian  folk. 
But,  dear  Chakey,  when  he  goes 
In  his  proper  Sabbath  clo'es, 
To  the  House  of  Worship,  he 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 

And  his  little  family, 

He  will  pass  the  synagogue, 

And  upon  his  way  will  jog 

To  a  Church,  wherein  his  pew 

Will  bear  a  name  unknown  to  you — 

One  quite  unknown  in  old  B'nai  B'rith — 

Eynston  maybe — maybe  Smith. 

That  's  just  as  sure  as  day  is  day — 

Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Broadway ! 


Atlantic   City 

O  City  that  is  not  a  city,  unworthy  the  prefix  Atlantic, 
Forlornest    of    watering-places,    and    thoroughly    Phila- 

delphian ! 

In  thy  despite  I  sing,  with  a  bitter  and  deep  detestation — 
A  detestation  born  of  a  direful  and  dinnerless  evening, 
Spent  in  thy  precincts  unhallowed — an  evening  I  trust 

may  recur  not. 
Never  till  then  did  I  know  what  was  meant  by  the  wTord 

god-forsaken : 
Thou  its  betokening  hast  taught  me,  being  the  chiefest 

example. 
Thou  art  the  scorned  of  the  gods;  thy  sand  from  their 

sandals  is  shaken ; 
Thee  have  they  left  in  their  wrath  to  thy  uninteresting 

extensiveness, 


525 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 


Barren    and    bleak    and    big;    a    wild    aggregation    of 

barracks, 

Miscalled  hotels,  and  of  dovecotes  denominate  cottages ; 
A  confusion  of  ugly  girls,  of  sand,  and  of  health-bearing 

breezes, 
With  one  unending  plank-walk  for  a  true  Philadelphia 

"attraction." 

City  ambitiously  named,  why,  with  inducements  delusive, 
Is  the  un-Philadelphian  stranger  lured  to  thy  desert  pre 
tentious  ? 
'T  is  not  alone  that  thy  avenues,  broad  and  unpaved  and 

unending, 

Re-echo  yet  with  the  obsolete  music  of  "Pinafore," 
Whistled   in   various   keys   by  the   rather  too   numerous 

negro ; 
'T  is    not    alone    that    Propriety — Propriety    too    Phila- 

delphian — 

Over  thee  stretches  an  aegis  of  wholly  superfluous  virtue; 
That  thou  art  utterly  good ;  hast  no  single  vice  to  redeem 

thee; 
'T  is  not  alone  that  thou  art  provincial  in  all  things,  and 

petty; 
And  that  the  dullness  of  death  is  gay,  compared  to  thy 

dullness — 
'T  is  not  alone  for  these  things  that  my  curse  is  to  rest 

upon  thee: 
But  for  a  sin  that  crowns  thee  with  perfect  and  eminent 

badness ; 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 


Sets  thee  alone  in  thy  shame,  the  unworthiest  town  on 

the  sea-coast: 
This:  that  thou  dinest  at  Noon,  and  then  in  a  manner 

barbarian, 
Soupless  and  wineless  and  coffeeless,  untimely  and  wholly 

indecent — • 

As  is  the  custom,  I  learn,  in  Philadelphia  proper. 
I  rose  and  I  fled  from  thy  Supper;  I  said:  "I  will  get  me 

a  Dinner !" 

Vainly  I  wandered  thy  streets :  thy  eating-places  ungodly 
Knew  not  the  holiness  of  Dinner;  in  all  that  evening  I 

dined  not ; 

But  in  a  strange  low  lair,  infested  of  native  mechanics, 
Bolted  a   fried  beefsteak  for  the  physical  need   of  my 

stomach. 
And  for  them  that  have  fried  that  steak,  in  Aides'  lowest 

back-kitchen 

May  they  eternally  broil,  by  way  of  a  warning  to  others. 
During  my  wanderings,  I  met,  and  hailed  with  delight 

one  Italian, 
A  man  with  a  name  from  "Pasquale" — the  chap  sung  by 

Tagliapietra — 
He   knew   what   it   was   to   dine;   he   comprehended   my 

yearnings ; 
But  the  spell  was  also  on  him ;  the  somnolent  spell  Phila- 

delphian ; 
And  his  hostelry  would  not  be  open  till  Saturday  next; 

and  I  cursed  him. 


527 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUXNER     1855-1896 

Now  this  is  not  too  much  to  ask,  God  knows,  that  a  mortal 

should  want  a 
Pint  of  Bordeaux  to  his  dinner,  and  a  small  cigarette 

for  a  climax : 
But,  these  things  being  denied  him,  where  then  is  jour 

Civilization  ? 
O  Coney  Island!  of  old  I  have  reviled  and  blasphemed 

thee, 
For  that  thou  dowsest  thy  glim  at  an  hour  that  is  un- 

metropolitan ; 
That  thy  frequenters'  feet  turn  townwards  ere  striketh 

eleven, 
When  the  returning  cars  are  filled  with  young  men  and 

maidens, 
Most  of  the  maidens  asleep  on  the  young  men's  cindery 

shoulders — 

Yea,  but  I  spake  as  a  fool,  insensate,  disgruntled,  un 
grateful  : 

Thee  will  I  worship  henceforth  in  appreciative  humility: 
Luxurious  and  splendid  and  urban,  glorious  and  gaslit 

and  gracious, 

Gathering  from  every  land  thy  gay  and  ephemeral  ten 
antry, 
From  the  Greek  who  hails  thee,  "Thalatta !"  to  the  rustic 

who  murmurs,  "My  Golly !" 
From  the  Bowery  youth  who  requests  his  sweetheart  to 

"look  at  them  billers !" 
To  the  Gaul  whom  thy  laughing  waves  almost  persuade 

to  immersion: 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 

O  Coney  Island,  thou  art  the  weary  citizen's  heaven — 
A  heaven  to   dine,  not   die  in,  joyful   and   restful   and 

clamful, 
Better  one  hour  of  thee  than  an  age  of  Atlantic  City ! 


Da  Capo 

Short  and  sweet,  and  we  've  come  to  the  end  of  it — 

Our  poor  little  love  lying  cold. 
Shall  no  sonnet,  then,  ever  be  penned  of  it? 

Nor  the  joys  and  pains  of  it  told? 
How  fair  was  its  face  in  the  morning, 

How  close  its  caresses  at  noon, 
How  its  evening  grew  chill  without  warning, 
Unpleasantly  soon ! 

I  can't  say  just  how  we  began  it — 

In  a  blush,  or  a  smile,  or  a  sigh; 
Fate  took  but  an  instant  to  plan  it; 

It  needs  but  a  moment  to  die. 
Yet — remember  that  first  conversation, 

When  the  flowers  you  had  dropped  at  your  feet 
I  restored.     The  familiar  quotation 

Was — "Sweets  to  the  sweet." 


529} 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNXER     1855-189G 


Oh^  their  delicate  perfume  has  haunted 
My  senses  a  whole  season  through. 

If  there  was  one  soft  charm  that  you  wanted 
The  violets  lent  it  to  you. 

I  whispered  you,  life  was  but  lonely: 
A  cue  which  you  graciously  took; 

And  your  eyes  learned  a  look  for  me  only — 
A  very  nice  look. 

And  sometimes  your  hand  would  touch  my  hand, 

With  a  sweetly  particular  touch; 
You  said  many  things  in  a  sigh,,  and 

Made  a  look  express  wondrously  much. 
We  smiled  for  the  mere  sake  of  smiling, 

And  laughed  for  no  reason  but  fun; 
Irrational  joys;  but  beguiling — 

And  all  that  is  done ! 

We  were  idle,  and  played  for  a  moment 
At  a  game  that  now  neither  will  press: 

I  cared  not  to  find  out  what  "No"  meant; 
Nor  your  lips  to  grow  yielding  with  "Yes." 

Love  is  done  with  and  dead ;  if  there  lingers 
A  faint  and  indefinite  ghost, 

It  is  laid  with  this  kiss  on  your  fingers — 
A  jest  at  the  most. 


530 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 


'T  is  a  commonplace,  stale  situation, 
Now  the  curtain  comes  down  from  above 

On  the  end  of  our  little  flirtation — 
A  travesty  romance;  for  Love, 

If  he  climbed  in  disguise  to  your  lattice, 
Fell  dead  of  the  first  kisses'  pain: 

But  one  thing  is  left  us  now;  that  is — • 
Begin  it  again. 


Just  a  Love-Letter 

'Miss  Blank — at  Blank.'     Jemima,  let  it  go !" 

— Austin  Dobson. 

New  York,  July  20,  1883. 
DEAR  GIRL: 

The  town  goes  on  as  though 
It  thought  you  still  were  in  it; 
The  gilded  cage  seems  scarce  to  know 

That  it  has  lost  its  linnet; 
The  people  come,  the  people  pass; 

The  clock  keeps  on  a-ticking: 
And  through  the  basement  plots  of  grass 
Persistent  weeds  are  pricking. 


[531 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNKER     1855-1896 


I  thought  't  would  never  come — the  Spring — 

Since  you  had  left  the  City: 
But  on  the  snow-drifts  lingering 

At  last  the  skies  took  pity, 
Then  Summer's  yellow  warmed  the  sun, 

Daily  decreasing  distance — 
I  really  don't  know  how  't  was  done 

Without  your  kind  assistance. 

Aunt  Van,  of  course,,  still  holds  the  fort : 

I  've  paid  the  call  of  duty ; 
She  gave  me  one  small  glass  of  port — 

'T  was  '34  and  fruity. 
The  furniture  was  draped  in  gloom 

Of  linen  brown  and  wrinkled; 
I  smelt  in  spots  about  the  room 

The  pungent  camphor  sprinkled. 

I  sat  upon  the  sofa,  where 

You  sat  and  dropped  your  thimble — 
You  know — you  said  you  did  n't  care ; 

But  I  was  nobly  nimble. 
On  hands  and  knees  I  dropped,  and  tried 

To — well,  I  tried  to  miss  it: 
You  slipped  your  hand  down  by  your  side — 

You  knew  I  meant  to  kiss  it ! 


532 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 


Aunt  Van,,  I  fear  we  put  to  shame 

Propriety  and  precision: 
But,  praised  be  Love,  that  kiss  just  came 

Beyond  your  line  of  vision. 
Dear  maiden  aunt !  the  kiss,  more  sweet 

Because  't  is  surreptitious, 
You  never  stretched  a  hand  to  meet, 

So  dimpled,  dear,  delicious. 

I  sought  the  Park  last  Saturday; 

I  found  the  Drive  deserted; 
The  water-trough  beside  the  way 

Sad  and  superfluous  spurted. 
I  stood  where  Humboldt  guards  the  gate, 

Bronze,  bumptious,  stained  and  streaky- 
There  sat  a  sparrow  on  his  pate, 

A  sparrow  chirp  and  cheeky. 

Ten  months  ago  !  ten  months  ago  ! — 

It  seems  a  happy  second, 
Against  a  life-time  lone  and  slow, 

By  Love's  wild  time-piece  reckoned — 
You  smiled,  by  Aunt's  protecting  side, 

Where  thick  the  drags  were  massing, 
On  one  young  man  who  did  n't  ride, 

But  stood  and  watched  you  passing. 


533} 


HENRY  CUTLER  BUNNER     1855-1896 


I  haunt  Purssell's — to  his  amaze — 

Not  that  I  care  to  eat  there ; 
But  for  the  dear  clandestine  days 

When  we  two  had  to  meet  there. 
Oh;  blessed  is  that  baker's  bake, 

Past  cavil  and  past  question ; 
I  ate  a  bun  for  your  sweet  sake, 

And  Memory  helped  Digestion. 

The  Norths  are  at  their  Newport  ranch; 

Van  Brunt  has  gone  to  Venice; 
Loomis  invites  me  to  the  Branch, 

And  lures  me  with  lawn-tennis. 

0  bustling  barracks  by  the  sea ! 
O  spiles,  canals,  and  islands ! 

Your  varied  charms  are  naught  to  me — 
My  heart  is  in  the  Highlands  ! 

My  paper  trembles  in  the  breeze 

That  all  too  faintly  flutters 
Among  the  dusty  city  trees, 

And  through  my  half-closed  shutters: 
A  northern  captive  in  the  town, 

Its  native  vigor  deadened, 

1  hope  that,  as  it  wandered  down, 
Your  dear  pale  cheek  it  reddened. 


534  ] 


HENRY  CUYLER  BUNKER     1855-1896 


I  '11  write  no  more.     A  vis-a-vis 

In  halcyon  vacation 
Will  sure  afford  a  much  more  free 

Mode  of  communication; 
I  'm  tantalized  and  cribbed  and  checked 

In  making  love  by  letter: 
I  know  a  style  more  brief,,  direct — 

And  generally  better ! 


535 


RICHARD  HOVEY     1864-1900 


The  Wander-Lovers 

Down  the  world  with  Marna ! 

That  's  the  life  for  me ! 

Wandering  with  the  wandering  wind, 

Vagabond  and  unconfined ! 

Roving  with  the  roving  rain 

Its  unboundaried  domain ! 

Kith  and  kin  of  wander-kind, 

Children  of  the  sea ! 

Petrels  of  the  sea-drift ! 
Swallows  of  the  lea  ! 
Arabs  of  the  whole  wide  girth 
Of  the  wind-encircled  earth ! 
In  all  climes  we  pitch  our  tents, 
Cronies  of  the  elements, 
With  the  secret  lords  of  birth 
Intimate  and  free. 

All  the  seaboard  knows  us 
From  Fundy  to  the  Keys; 
Every  bend  and  every  creek 
Of  abundant  Chesapeake; 
Ardise  hills  and  Newport  coves 
And  the  far-off  orange  groves, 
Where  Floridian  oceans  break, 
Tropic  tiger  seas. 


536] 


RICHARD  HOVEY     1864-1900 


Down  the  world  with  Marna, 
Tarrying  there  and  here ! 
Just  as  much  at  home  in  Spain 
As  in  Tangier  or  Touraine ! 
Shakespeare's  Avon  knows  us  well, 
And  the  crags  of  Neufchatel; 
And  the  ancient  Nile  is  fain 
Of  our  coming  near. 

Down  the  world  with  Marna, 
Daughter  of  the  air ! 
Marna  of  the  subtle  grace, 
And  the  vision  in  her  face ! 
Moving  in  the  measures  trod 
By  the  angels  before  God ! 
With  her  sky-blue  eyes  amaze 
And  her  sea-blue  hair ! 

Marna  with  the  trees'  life 
In  her  veins  a-stir ! 
Marna  of  the  aspen  heart 
Where  the  sudden  quivers  start ! 
Quick-responsive,  subtle,  wild ! 
Artless  as  an  artless  child, 
Spite  of  all  her  reach  of  art ! 
Oh,  to  roam  with  her ! 


[537] 


RICHARD  HOVEY     1864-1900 


Marna  with  the  wind's  will, 
Daughter  of  the  sea ! 
Marna  of  the  quick  disdain,, 
Starting  at  the  dream  of  stain! 
At  a  smile  with  love  aglow,, 
At  a  frown  a  statued  woe, 
Standing  pinnacled  in  pain 
Till  a  kiss  sets  free ! 

Down  the  world  with  Marna, 
Daughter  of  the  fire ! 
Marna  of  the  deathless  hope, 
Still  alert  to  win  new  scope 
Where  the  wings  of  life  may  spread 
For  a  flight  unhazarded ! 
Dreaming  of  the  speech  to  cope 
With  the  heart's  desire ! 

Marna  of  the  far  quest 
After  the  divine ! 
Striving  ever  for  some  goal 
Past  the  blunder-god's  control ! 
Dreaming  of  potential  years 
When  no  day  shall  dawn  in  fears ! 
That  's  the  Marna  of  my  soul, 
Wander-bride  of  mine ! 


538 


RICHARD  HOVEY     1864-1900 


At  the  End  of  Day 

There  is  no  escape  by  the  river,, 
There  is  no  flight  left  by  the  fen; 
We  are  compassed  about  by  the  shiver 
Of  the  night  of  their  marching  men. 
Give  a  cheer ! 

For  our  hearts  shall  not  give  way. 
Here  's  to  a  dark  to-morrow^ 
And  here  's  to  a  brave  to-day ! 

The  tale  of  their  hosts  is  countless, 

And  the  tale  of  ours  a  score ; 

But  the  palm  is  naught  to  the  dauntless, 

And  the  cause  is  more  and  more. 

Give  a  cheer ! 

We  may  die>  but  not  give  way. 

Here  's  to  a  silent  morrow^ 

And  here  's  to  a  stout  to-day ! 

God  has  said:  "Ye  shall  fail  and  perish; 

But  the  thrill  ye  have  felt  to-night 

I  shall  keep  in  my  heart  and  cherish 

When  the  worlds  have  passed  in  night." 

Give  a  cheer ! 

For  the  soul  shall  not  give  way. 

Here  's  to  the  greater  to-morrow 

That  is  born  of  a  great  to-day ! 


RICHARD  HOVEY     1864-1900 


Now  shame  on  the  craven  truckler 
And  the  puling  things  that  mope ! 
We  've  a  rapture  for  our  buckler 
That  outwears  the  wings  of  hope. 
Give  a  cheer ! 

For  our  joy  shall  not  give  way. 
Here  's  in  the  teeth  of  to-morrow 
To  the  glory  of  to-day ! 


The  Sea  Gypsy 

I  am  fevered  with  the  sunset, 
I  am  fretful  with  the  bay, 
For  the  wander-thirst  is  on  me 
And  my  soul  is  in  Cathay. 

There  's  a  schooner  in  the  offing, 
With  her  topsails  shot  with  fire, 
And  my  heart  has  gone  aboard  her 
For  the  Islands  of  Desire. 

I  must  forth  again  to-morrow ! 
With  the  sunset  I  must  be 
Hull  down  on  the  trail  of  rapture 
In  the  wonder  of  the  sea. 


540} 


RICHARD  HOVEY     1864-1900 


Launa  Dee 

Weary,  oh,  so  weary 

With  it  all! 

Sunny  days  or  dreary — 

How  they  pall ! 

Why  should  we  be  heroes, 

Launa  Dee, 

Striving  to  no  winning? 

Let  the  world  be  Zero's  ! 

As  in  the  beginning 

Let  it  be. 

What  good  comes  of  toiling, 

When  all 's  done  ? 

Frail  green  sprays  for  spoiling 

Of  the  sun; 

Laurel  leaf  or  myrtle, 

Love  or  fame — 

Ah,  what  odds  what  spray,  sweet? 

Time,  that  makes  life  fertile, 

Makes  its  blooms  decay,  sweet, 

As  they  came. 

Lie  here  with  me  dreaming, 

Cheek  to  cheek, 

Lithe  limbs  twined  and  gleaming, 

Brown  and  sleek; 

Like  two  serpents  coiling 

In  their  lair. 

[541] 


RICHARD  HOVEY     1864-1900 


Where  's  the  good  of  wreathing 
Sprays  for  Time's  despoiling? 
Let  me  feel  your  breathing 
In  my  hair. 

You  and  I  together — 

Was  it  so? 

In  the  August  weather 

Long  ago ! 

Did  we  kiss  and  fellow, 

Side  by  side, 

Till  the  sunbeams  quickened 

From  our  stalks  great  yellow 

Sunflowers,  till  we  sickened 

There  and  died? 

WTere  we  tigers  creeping 

Through  the  glade 

Where  our  prey  lay  sleeping, 

Unafraid, 

In  some  Eastern  jungle? 

Better  so. 

I  am  sure  the  snarling 

Beasts  could  never  bungle 

Life  as  men  do,  darling, 

Who  half  know. 

Ah,  if  all  of  life,  love, 
Were  the  living! 
Just  to  cease  from  strife,  love, 
And  from  grieving; 

[W] 


RICHARD  HOVEY     1864-1900 


Let  the  swift  world  pass  us, 
You  and  me, 

Stilled  from  all  aspiring, — 
Sinai  nor  Parnassus 
Longer  worth  desiring, 
Launa  Dee! 

Just  to  live  like  lilies 

In  the  lake ! 

Where  no  thought  nor  will  is, 

To  mistake ! 

Just  to  lose  the  human 

Eyes  that  weep ! 

Just  to  cease  from  seeming 

Longer  man  and  woman ! 

Just  to  reach  the  dreaming 

And  the  sleep ! 


Unmanifest  Destiny 

To  what  new  fates,  my  country,  far 
And  unforeseen  of  foe  or  friend, 

Beneath  what  unexpected  star, 

Compelled  to  what  unchosen  end, 

Across  the  sea  that  knows  no  beach 
The  Admiral  of  Nations  guides 

Thy  blind  obedient  keels  to  reach 
The  harbor  where  thy  future  rides ! 

[543] 


RICHARD  HOVEY     1864-1900 


The  guns  that  spoke  at  Lexington 

Knew  not  that  God  was  planning  then 

The  trumpet  word  of  Jefferson 
To  bugle  forth  the  rights  of  men. 

To  them  that  wept  and  cursed  Bull  Run, 
What  was  it  but  despair  and  shame? 

Who  saw  behind  the  cloud  the  sun? 
Who  knew  that  God  was  in  the  flame  ? 

Had  not  defeat  upon  defeat, 

Disaster  on  disaster  come, 
The  slave's  emancipated  feet 

Had  never  marched  behind  the  drum. 

There  is  a  Hand  that  bends  our  deeds 
To  mightier  issues  than  we  planned, 

Each  son  that  triumphs,  each  that  bleeds, 
My  country,  serves  Its  dark  command. 

I  do  not  know  beneath  what  sky 

Nor  on  what  seas  shall  be  thy  fate; 

I  only  know  it  shall  be  high, 
I  only  know  it  shall  be  great. 


544] 


RICHARD  HOVEY     1864-1900 


Voices  of  Unseen  Spirits 
From  "Taliesin:  a  Masque" 

Here  falls  no  light  of  sun  nor  stars ; 

Xo  stir  nor  striving  here  intrudes ; 
No  moan  nor  merry-making  mars 

The  quiet  of  these  solitudes. 

Submerged  in  sleep,  the  passive  soul 
Is  one  with  all  the  things  that  seem; 

Night  blurs  in  one  confused  whole 
Alike  the  dreamer  and  the  dream. 

O  dwellers  in  the  busy  town ! 

For  dreams  you  smile,  for  dreams  you  weep. 
Come  out,,  and  lay  your  burdens  down ! 

Come  out ;  there  is  no  God  but  Sleep. 

Sleep,,  and  renounce  the  vital  day ; 

For  evil  is  the  child  of  life. 
Let  be  the  will  to  live,  and  pray 

To  find  forgetfulness  of  strife. 

Beneath  the  thicket  of  these  leaves 

No  light  discriminates  each  from  each. 

No  Self  that  wrongs,,  no  Self  that  grieves 
Hath  longer  deed  nor  creed  nor  speech. 

Sleep  on  the  mighty  Mother's  breast! 

Sleep,  and  no  more  be  separate ! 
Then,  one  with  Nature's  ageless  rest, 

There  shall  be  no  more  sin  to  hate. 

[645] 


RICHARD  HOVEY     1864-1900 


Faith  and  Fate 

To  horse,  my  dear,  and  out  into  the  night ! 

Stirrup  and  saddle  and  away,  away ! 

Into  the  darkness,  into  the  affright, 

Into  the  unknown  on  our  trackless  way ! 

Past  bridge  and  town  missiled  with  flying  feet, 

Into  the  wilderness  our  riding  thrills; 

The  gallop  echoes  through  the  startled  street, 

And  shrieks  like  laughter  in  the  demoned  hills; 

Things  come  to  meet  us  with  fantastic  frown, 

And  hurry  past  with  maniac  despair ; 

Death  from  the  stars  looks  ominously  down — 

Ho,  ho,  the  dauntless  riding  that  we  dare ! 

East,  to  the  dawn,  or  west  or  south  or  north! 

Loose  rein  upon  the  neck  of  Fate — and  forth ! 


546} 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 


An  Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation 

(After  seeing  at  Boston  the  statue  of  Robert  Gould  Shaw, 
killed  while  storming  Fort  Wagner,  July  18,  1863,  at  the 
head  of  the  first  enlisted  negro  regiment,  the  54th  Massa 
chusetts,^) 

I 

Before  the  solemn  bronze  Saint  Gaudens  made 

To  thrill  the  heedless  passer's  heart  with  awe, 

And  set  here  in  the  city's  talk  and  trade 

To  the  good  memory  of  Robert  Shaw, 

This  bright  March  morn  I  stand, 

And  hear  the  distant  spring  come  up  the  land; 

Knowing  that  what  I  hear  is  not  unheard 

Of  this  boy  soldier  and  his  negro  band, 

For  all  their  gaze  is  fixed  so  stern  ahead, 

For  all  the  fatal  rhythm  of  their  tread. 

The  land  they  died  to  save  from  death  and  shame 

Trembles  and  waits,  hearing  the  spring's  great  name, 

And  by  her  pangs  these  resolute  ghosts  are  stirred. 

II 

Through  street  and  mall  the  tides  of  people  go 
Heedless ;  the  trees  upon  the  Common  show 
No  hint  of  green ;  but  to  my  listening  heart 
The  still  earth  doth  impart 
Assurance  of  her  jubilant  emprise, 


[547 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 


And  it  is  clear  to  my  long-searching  eyes 

That  love  at  last  has  might  upon  the  skies. 

The  ice  is  runneled  on  the  little  pond ; 

A  telltale  patter  drips  from  off  the  trees ; 

The  air  is  touched  with  southland  spiceries, 

As  if  but  yesterday  it  tossed  the  frond 

Of  pendent  mosses  where  the  live-oaks  grow 

Beyond  Virginia  and  the  Carolines, 

Or  had  its  will  among  the  fruits  and  vines 

Of  aromatic  isles  asleep  beyond 

Florida  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

Ill 

Soon  shall  the  Cape  Ann  children  shout  in  glee, 

Spying  the  arbutus,  spring's  dear  recluse; 

Hill  lads  at  dawn  shall  hearken  the  wild  goose 

Go  honking  northward  over  Tennessee ; 

West  from  Oswego  to  Sault  Sainte-Marie, 

And  on  to  where  the  Pictured  Rocks  are  hung, 

And  yonder  where,  gigantic,  willful,  young, 

Chicago  sitteth  at  the  northwest  gates, 

With  restless  violent  hands  and  casual  tongue 

Moulding  her  mighty  fates, 

The  Lakes  shall  robe  them  in  ethereal  sheen ; 

And  like  a  larger  sea,  the  vital  green 

Of  springing  wheat  shall  vastly  be  outflung 

Over  Dakota  and  the  prairie  states. 

By  desert  people  immemorial 


548 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 


On  Arizonan  mesas  shall  be  done 

Dim  rites  unto  the  thunder  and  the  sun ; 

Nor  shall  the  primal  gods  lack  sacrifice 

More  splendid,,  when  the  white  Sierras  call 

Unto  the  Rockies  straightway  to  arise 

And  dance  before  the  unveiled  ark  of  the  year, 

Sounding  their  windy  cedars  as  for  shawms, 

Unrolling  rivers  clear 

For  flutter  of  broad  phylacteries ; 

While  Shasta  signals  to  Alaskan  seas 

That  watch  old  sluggish  glaciers  downward  creep, 

To  fling  their  icebergs  thundering  from  the  steep, 

And  Mariposa  through  the  purple  calms 

Gazes  at  far  Hawaii  crowned  with  palms 

Where  East  and  West  are  met, — 

A  rich  seal  on  the  ocean's  bosom  set 

To  say  that  East  and  West  are  twain, 

With  different  loss  and  gain : 

The  Lord  hath  sundered  them ;  let  them  be  sundered  yet. 


IV 


Alas !  what  sounds  are  these  that  come 

Sullenly  over  the  Pacific  seas, — 

Sounds  of  ignoble  battle,  striking  dumb 

The  season's  half-awakened  ecstasies? 

Must  I  be  humble,  then, 

Now  when  my  heart  hath  need  of  pride? 

Wild  love  falls  on  me  from  these  sculptured  men ; 

[649] 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 

By  loving  much  the  land  for  which  they  died 

I  would  be  justified. 

My  spirit  was  away  on  pinions  wide 

To  soothe  in  praise  of  her  its  passionate  mood 

And  ease  it  of  its  ache  of  gratitude. 

Too  sorely  heavy  is  the  debt  they  lay 

On  me  and  the  companions  of  my  day. 

I  would  remember  now 

My  country's  goodliness,  make  sweet  her  name. 

Alas  !  what  shade  art  thou 

Of  sorrow  or  of  blame 

Liftest  the  lyric  leafage  from  her  brow, 

And  pointest  a  slow  finger  at  her  shame  ? 


Lies  !  lies  !     It  cannot  be  !     The  wars  we  wage 

Are  noble,  and  our  battles  still  are  won 

By  justice  for  us,  ere  we  lift  the  gage. 

We  have  not  sold  our  loftiest  heritage. 

The  proud  republic  hath  not  stooped  to  cheat 

And  scramble  in  the  market-place  of  war ; 

Her  forehead  weareth  yet  its  solemn  star. 

Here  is  her  witness :  this,  her  perfect  son, 

This  delicate  and  proud  New  England  soul 

Who  leads  despised  men,  with  just-unshackled  feet, 

Up  the  large  ways  where  death  and  glory  meet, 

To  show  all  peoples  that  our  shame  is  done, 

That  once  more  we  are  clean  and  spirit-whole. 


550  ] 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 


VI 

Crouched  in  the  sea  fog  on  the  moaning  sand 

All  night  he  lay,,  speaking  some  simple  word 

From  hour  to  hour  to  the  slow  minds  that  heard, 

Holding  each  poor  life  gently  in  his  hand 

And  breathing  on  the  base  rejected  clay 

Till  each  dark  face  shone  mystical  and  grand 

Against  the  breaking  day ; 

And  lo,  the  shard  the  potter  cast  away 

Was  grown  a  fiery  chalice  crystal-fine 

Fulfilled  of  the  divine 

Great  wine  of  battle  wrath  by  God's  ring-finger  stirred. 

Then  upward,,  where  the  shadowy  bastion  loomed 

Huge  on  the  mountain  in  the  wet  sea  light, 

Whence  now,  and  now,  infernal  flowerage  bloomed, 

Bloomed,  burst,  and  scattered  down  its  deadly  seed, — • 

They  swept,  and  died  like  freemen  on  the  height, 

Like  freemen,  and  like  men  of  noble  breed ; 

And  when  the  battle  fell  away  at  night 

By  hasty  and  contemptuous  hands  were  thrust 

Obscurely  in  a  common  grave  with  him 

The  fair-haired  keeper  of  their  love  and  trust. 

Now  limb  doth  mingle  with  dissolved  limb 

In  nature's  busy  old  democracy 

To  flush  the  mountain  laurel  when  she  blows 

Sweet  by  the  southern  sea, 

And  heart  with  crumbled  heart  climbs  in  the  rose: — 

The  untaught  hearts  with  the  high  heart  that  knew 


551 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 

This  mountain  fortress  for  no  earthly  hold 

Of  temporal  quarrel,  but  the  bastion  old 

Of  spiritual  wrong, 

Built  by  an  unjust  nation  sheer  and  strong, 

Expugnable  but  by  a  nation's  rue 

And  bowing  down  before  that  equal  shrine 

By  all  men  held  divine, 

Whereof  his  band  and  he  were  the  most  holy  sign. 

VII 

0  bitter,  bitter  shade! 
Wilt  thou  not  put  the  scorn 

And  instant  tragic  question  from  thine  eyes? 

Do  thy  dark  brows  yet  crave 

That  swift  and  angry  stave — 

Unmeet  for  this  desirous  morn — 

That  I  have  striven,  striven  to  evade  ? 

Gazing  on  him,  must  I  not  deem  they  err 

Whose  careless  lips  in  street  and  shop  aver 

As  common  tidings,  deeds  to  make  his  cheek 

Flush  from  the  bronze,  and  his  dead  throat  to  speak  ? 

Surely  some  elder  singer  would  arise, 

Whose  harp  hath  leave  to  threaten  and  to  mourn 

Above  this  people  when  they  go  astray. 

Is  Whitman,  the  strong  spirit,  overworn  ? 

Has  Whittier  put  his  yearning  wrath  away  ? 

1  will  not  and  I  dare  not  yet  believe ! 
Though  furtively  the  sunlight  seems  to  grieve, 
And  the  spring-laden  breeze 


[  552 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 

Out  of  the  gladdening  west  is  sinister 

With  sounds  of  nameless  battle  overseas ; 

Though  when  we  turn  and  question  in  suspense 

If  these  things  be  indeed  after  these  ways, 

And  what  things  are  to  follow  after  these, 

Our  fluent  men  of  place  and  consequence 

Fumble  and  fill  their  mouths  with  hollow  phrase, 

Or  for  the  end-all  of  deep  arguments 

Intone  their  dull  commercial  liturgies — 

I  dare  not  yet  believe  !     My  ears  are  shut ! 

I  will  not  hear  the  thin  satiric  praise 

And  muffled  laughter  of  our  enemies, 

Bidding  us  never  sheathe  our  valiant  sword 

Till  we  have  changed  our  birthright  for  a  gourd 

Of  wild  pulse  stolen  from  a  barbarian's  hut ; 

Showing  how  wise  it  is  to  cast  away 

The  symbols  of  our  spiritual  sway, 

That  so  our  hands  with  better  ease 

May  wield  the  driver's  whip  and  grasp  the  jailer's  keys. 

VIII 

Was  it  for  this  our  fathers  kept  the  law? 

This  crown  shall  crown  their  struggle  and  their  ruth  ? 

Are  we  the  eagle  nation  Milton  saw 

Mewing  its  mighty  youth, 

Soon  to  possess  the  mountain  winds  of  truth, 

And  be  a  swift  familiar  of  the  sun 

Where  aye  before  God's  face  his  trumpets  run? 


[558 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 

Or  have  we  but  the  talons  and  the  maw, 

And  for  the  abject  likeness  of  our  heart 

Shall  some  less  lordly  bird  be  set  apart  ? — 

Some  gross-billed  wader  where  the  swamps  are  fat? 

Some  gorger  in  the  sun  ?     Some  prowler  with  the  bat  ? 

IX 

Ah,  no ! 

We  have  not  fallen  so. 

We  are  our  fathers'  sons :  let  those  who  lead  us  know ! 

'T  was  only  yesterday  sick  Cuba's  cry 

Came  up  the  tropic  wind,,  "Now  help  us,  for  we  die!" 

Then  Alabama  heard, 

And  rising,  pale,  to  Maine  and  Idaho 

Shouted  a  burning  word, 

Proud  state  with  proud  impassioned  state  conferred, 

And  at  the  lifting  of  a  hand  sprang  forth, 

East,  west,  and  south,  and  north, 

Beautiful  armies.     Oh,  by  the  sweet  blood  and  young 

Shed  on  the  awful  hillslope  at  San  Juan, 

By  the  unforgotten  names  of  eager  boys 

Who  might  have  tasted  girls'  love  and  been  stung 

With  the  old  mystic  joys 

And  starry  griefs,  now  the  spring  nights  come  on, 

But  that  the  heart  of  youth  is  generous, — 

We  charge  you,  ye  who  lead  us, 

Breathe  on  their  chivalry  no  hint  of  stain ! 

Turn  not  their  new-world  victories  to  gain ! 


554  ] 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 


One  least  leaf  plucked  for  chaffer  from  the  bays 

Of  their  dear  praise, 

One  jot  of  their  pure  conquest  put  to  hire, 

The  implacable  republic  will  require ; 

With  clamor,  in  the  glare  and  gaze  of  noon, 

Or  subtly,  coming  as  a  thief  at  night, 

But  surely,  very  surely,  slow  or  soon 

That  insult  deep  we  deeply  will  requite. 

Tempt  not  our  weakness,  our  cupidity ! 

For  save  we  let  the  island  men  go  free, 

Those  baffled  and  dislaureled  ghosts 

Will  curse  us  from  the  lamentable  coasts 

Where  walk  the  frustrate  dead. 

The  cup  of  trembling  shall  be  drained  quite, 

Eaten  the  sour  bread  of  astonishment, 

With  ashes  of  the  hearth  shall  be  made  white 

Our  hair,  and  wailing  shall  be  in  the  tent ; 

Then  on  your  guiltier  head 

Shall  our  intolerable  self-disdain 

Wreak  suddenly  its  anger  and  its  pain ; 

For  manifest  in  that  disastrous  light 

We  shall  discern  the  right 

And  do  it,  tardily. — O  ye  who  lead, 

Take  heed ! 

Blindness  we  may  forgive,  but  baseness  we  will  smite. 


[555 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 

Gloucester  Moors 

A  mile  behind  is  Gloucester  town 
Where  the  fishing  fleets  put  in, 
A  mile  ahead  the  land  dips  down 
And  the  wroods  and  farms  begin. 
Here,  where  the  moors  stretch  free 
In  the  high  blue  afternoon, 
Are  the  marching  sun  and  talking  sea, 
And  the  racing  winds  that  wheel  and  flee 
On  the  flying  heels  of  June. 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue, 

Blue  is  the  quaker  maid, 

The  wild  geranium  holds  its  dew 

Long  in  the  boulder's  shade. 

Wax-red  hangs  the  cup 

From  the  huckleberry  boughs, 

In  barberry  bells  the  gray  moths  sup, 

Or  where  the  choke-cherry  lifts  high  up 

Sweet  bowls  for  their  carouse. 

Over  the  shelf  of  the  sandy  cove 

Beach-peas  blossom  late. 

By  copse  and  cliff  the  swallows  rove 

Each  calling  to  his  mate. 

Seaward  the  sea-gulls  go, 

And  the  land-birds  all  are  here; 

That  green-gold  flash  was  a  vireo, 

And  yonder  flame  where  the  marsh-flags  grow 

Was  a  scarlet  tanager. 

[556] 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 


This  earth  is  not  the  steadfast  place 

We  landsmen  build  upon; 

From  deep  to  deep  she  varies  pace, 

And  while  she  comes  is  gone. 

Beneath  my  feet  I  feel 

Her  smooth  bulk  heave  and  dip ; 

With  velvet  plunge  and  soft  upreel 

She  swings  and  steadies  to  her  keel 

Like  a  gallant,  gallant  ship. 

These  summer  clouds  she  sets  for  sail,, 

The  sun  is  her  masthead  light, 

She  tows  the  moon  like  a  pinnace  frail 

Where  her  phosphor  wake  churns  bright. 

Now  hid.,  now  looming  clear, 

On  the  face  of  the  dangerous  blue 

The  star  fleets  tack  and  wheel  and  veer, 

But  on,  but  on  does  the  old  earth  steer 

As  if  her  port  she  knew. 

God,  dear  God !     Does  she  know  her  port, 

Though  she  goes  so  far  about? 

Or  blind  astray,  does  she  make  her  sport 

To  brazen  and  chance  it  out  ? 

I  watched  when  her  captains  passed : 

She  were  better  captainless. 

Men  in  the  cabin,  before  the  mast, 

But  some  were  reckless  and  some  aghast. 

And  some  sat  gorged  at  mess. 

[557] 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 

By  her  battened  hatch  I  leaned  and  caught 

Sounds  from  the  noisome  hold, — 

Cursing  and  sighing  of  souls  distraught 

And  cries  too  sad  to  be  told. 

Then  I  strove  to  go  down  and  see ; 

But  they  said.,  "Thou  art  not  of  us !" 

I  turned  to  those  on  the  deck  with  me 

And  cried,  "Give  help!"     But  they  said,  "Let  be: 

Our  ship  sails  faster  thus." 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue, 

Blue  is  the  quaker-maid, 

The  alder-clump  where  the  brook  comes  through 

Breeds  cresses  in  its  shade. 

To  be  out  of  the  moiling  street 

With  its  swelter  and  its  sin ! 

Who  has  given  to  me  this  sweet, 

And  given  my  brother  dust  to  eat? 

And  when  will  his  wage  come  in? 

Scattering  wide  or  blown  in  ranks, 
Yellow  and  white  and  brown, 
Boats  and  boats  from  the  fishing  banks 
Come  home  to  Gloucester  town. 
There  is  cash  to  purse  and  spend, 
There  are  wives  to  be  embraced, 
Hearts  to  borrow  and  hearts  to  lend, 
And  hearts  to  take  and  keep  to  the  end, — 
O  little  sails,  make  haste ! 

[  558  ] 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY     1869-1910 


But  thou,  vast  outbound  ship  of  souls, 

What  harbor  town  for  thee? 

What  shapes,  when  thy  arriving  tolls, 

Shall  crowd  the  banks  to  see  ? 

Shall  all  the  happy  shipmates  then 

Stand  singing  brotherly  ? 

Or  shall  a  haggard  ruthless  few 

Warp  her  over  and  bring  her  to, 

While  the  many  broken  souls  of  men 

Fester  down  in  the  slaver's  pen, 

And  nothing  to  say  or  do  ? 


[559 


INDEX 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 

After  the   Ball Perry  477 

Ah,  Be  Not  False Gilder  492 

Alas !    Gary  345 

All  Quiet   Along  the   Potomac Beers  383 

Alnwick    Castle Halleck  14 

American    Flag,    The Drake  69 

Annabel   Lee Poe  186 

Antony   and   Cleopatra Lytle  381 

Arsenal  at  Springfield,  The Longfellow  113 

Atlantic    City Bunner  525 

At  the  End  of  Day Hovey  539 

Auf   Wiedersehen Lowell  302 

Baby   Bell Aldrich  427 

Babylonian  Captivity,  The Barlow  3 

Ballad  of  Lager  Bier,  The Stedman  406 

Ballad  of  the  Oysterman,  The Holmes  216 

Barbara    Frietchie Whittier  163 

Barclay  of  Ury Whittier  139 

Battle-Field,    The Bryant  53 

Bells,    The Poe  182 

Bereavement     Saxe  250 

Black    Eyes Story  264 

Battle-Hymn   of   the    Republic Howe  317 

Bibliomaniac's  Prayer,  The Field  498 

Bivouac  of  the  Dead,  The O'Hara  332 

Borrowing     Emerson  86 

Brahma    Emerson  87 

Burns    Halleck  18 

Candor    Bunner  517 

Carmen    Bellicosum McMaster  387 

Celestial    Army Read  337 

Chakey    Einstein Bunner  520 

Chambered   Nautilus,  The Holmes  226 


563 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Chaperon,  The Bunner  519 

Charleston    Timrod  391 

Chiquita    Harte  462 

Cleopatra     Story  253 

Concord   Hymn Emerson  85 

Connecticut     Halleck  30 

Conqueror's   Grave,   The Bryant  60 

Conqueror  Worm,  The Poe  180 

Coup  de  Grace,  The    Sill  476 

Courtin',   The Lowell  270 

Credidimus  Jovem   Regnare Lowell  307 

Crowded  Street,   The Bryant  56 

Cumberland,    The Longfellow  131 

Da    Capo Bunner  529 

Days    Emerson  84 

Day  is  Done,  The Longfellow  119 

Deacon's   Masterpiece,   The Holmes  218 

Dear  Old  London Field  494 

Death  of  the  Flowers,  The Bryant  46 

Dedication  of  "In  War  Time" Whittier  159 

Dibdin's    Ghost Field  499 

Dilemma,    The Holmes  195 

Dixie     Pike  230 

Dow's    Flat Harte  456 

Duel,   The - Field  508 

Early   Rising Saxe  240 

Edged  Tools Stedman  413  - 

Egyptian  Serenade Curtis  343 

Endymion    Longfellow  108 

Evening    Doane  72 

Excelsior     Longfellow  111 

Fable     Emerson  83 

Faith    Palmer  168 

Faith  and  Fate Hovey  546 

Fancy   Shot,   The Shanly  237 


[564 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Feminine    Runner  516 

Fight   at  the  San  Jacinto,   The Palmer  361 

Flight   of  Youth,  The Stoddard  366 

Florence    Vane Cooke  251 

Fool's    Prayer,   The Sill  470 

Footsteps  of  Angels Longfellow  96 

Forest  Hymn,  A Bryant  40 

Freedom  for  the  Mind Garrison  88 

Future  Life,  The  Bryant  55 

Gloucester  Moors Moody  556 

Grandma's    Prayer Field  507 

Hannah    Binding   Shoes Larcom  377 

Haunted  Palace,  The Poe  178 

Health,  A Pinkney  74 

Her  Epitaph Parsons  326 

Heri,  Cras,  Hodie Emerson  86 

Her  Opinion  of  the  Play Cook  510 

Heroic    Age,    The Gilder  493 

Home,  Sweet  Home Payne  34 

Home    Wounded Anonymous  468 

Hour  of  Peaceful  Rest,  The Tappan  35 

Humble-Bee,   The Emerson  80 

Hymn  of  the  Knights  Templars Hay  447 

Hypatia    , Stedman  422 

Ichabod    Whittier  146 

In  Amsterdam Field  496 

In  an  Atelier Aldrich  433 

Incognita  of  Raphael,  The Butler  346 

In    Sorrow Hastings  8 

In  the  Rain Story  266 

"Jim"     Harte  460 

Jim  Bludso  of  the  Prairie  Belle Hay  443 

June     Bryant  44 

Just   a    Love-Letter Bunner  531 

Kearny  at   Seven  Pines Stedman  420 


[565 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


L'Abbate    Story  260 

Last    Allen  397 

Last  Leaf,  The Holmes  193 

Latter  Day,   The Hastings  7 

Launa    Dee Hovey  541 

Left  Behind Allen  398 

Lexington    Holmes  203 

Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave,  A Sargent  239 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  O.  Torrey Whittier  144 

Little    Peach,    The Field  503 

Love  in  a  Cottage Willis  90 

Love  to  the  Church Dwight  1 

Lover's   Song,  The Sill  475 

Lydia  Dick Field  504 

Maidenhood    Longfellow  109 

Marco    Bozzaris Halleck  10 

Marshes  of  Glynn,  The Lanier  482 

Mary    Booth Parsons  325 

Maud  Muller    Whittier  148 

Milton's  Prayer  of  Patience Howell  232 

Mint    Julep,    The Hoffman  93 

Momentous  Words .  Sill  474 

Monterey     Hoffman  93 

Music-Grinders,    The Holmes  200 

My  Aunt Holmes  197 

My   Lost   Youth Longfellow  127 

My    Maryland Randall  449 

My    Playmate Whittier  153 

Mystery  of  Gilgal,  The Hay  445 

Nearer    Home Gary  344 

Nocturne    Aldrich  440 

Noel     Gilder  491 

Nothing  to  Wear Butler  348 

Nuremberg   Longfellow  115 

Obituary    Parsons  327 


566 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


O    Captain !    My    Captain  ! Whitman  321 

O  Listen  to  the  Sounding  Sea Curtis  342 

Ode    Timrod  393 

Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation,  An Moody  547 

Ode  recited   at   the  Harvard  Commemoration Lowell  286 

"Oh  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race" Bryant  58 

Old  Burying-Ground,  The Whittier  155 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante Parsons  323 

On  an  Intaglio  Head  of  Minerva Aldrich  438 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl Holmes  206 

On    Lynn    Terrace Aldrich  436 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake Halleck  25 

Open  Window,  The Sill  471 

Opportunity    Ingalls  426 

Orpheus  and  Eurydice Saxe  245 

Our    Orders Howe  318 

Over    the    River Wakefield  441 

Palabras    Carinosas Aldrich  432 

Palinode     Lowell  303 

Pan  in  Wall  Street Stedman  403 

Paradisi    Gloria Parsons  328 

Parting,    A Pinkney  76 

Parting  Word,  The Holmes  210 

Past,    The Bryant  48 

Pen  of  Steel,  A Pratt  401 

Petition,   The Lowell  306 

Philosopher   to    His  Love,   The Holmes  215 

Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James Harte  454 

Planting  of  the  Apple-Tree,  The Bryant  63 

Poet    Emerson  85 

Polyphemus  and  Ulysses Saxe  242 

Praxiteles   and  Phryne Story  258 

Preference   Declared,   The Field  507 

Present  Crisis,  The Lowell  275 

Private    Devotion Brown  6 


[567 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Problem,  The Emerson  77 

Proem  to  Edition  of  1847 Whittier  133 

Provencal    Lovers Stedman  418 

Psalm   of   Life,    The Longfellow  95 

"Qui   Vive" Holmes  223 

Randolph  of  Roanoke Whittier  134 

Raven,    The Poe  170 

Red   Jacket Halleck  26 

Reform     Gilder  490 

Resignation    Longfellow  123 

Rhodora,    The Emerson  79 

River    Inn,   The Gilder  489 

Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep Willard  9 

Rock    Me    to    Sleep Allen  395 

Sacrifice    Emerson  86 

Saint   Peray Parsons  329 

Sea   Gypsy,    The Hovey  540 

Seaweed    Longfellow  121 

Serenade,    A Pinkney  73 

Shakespeare    Emerson  86 

Sheridan's   Ride Read  339 

She  Was   a   Beauty Bunner  516 

Ships    at   Sea Coffin  379 

Si  Jeunesse  Savait ! Stedman  417 

Skeleton   in  Armor,   The Longfellow  99 

Snowdrop     Story  267 

Snow-Shower,    The Bryant  66 

Society  upon  the  Stanislaus,  The Harte  452 

Some  Things  Love  Me Read  336 

Song    Pinkney  73 

Song    Lowell  274 

Song  from  the  Persian Aldrich  431 

Song  of  Marion's  Men Bryant  51 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee Lanier  480 


568 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Song  of  the  Silent  Land Longfellow  98 

Songs    Gilder  492 

Spring    Song Curtis  343 

Star  and  the  Water-Lily,  The Holmes  213 

Star-Spangled  Banner,  The Key  4 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way Palmer  364 

Summons,   The Howe  319 

Tea-Gown,    The Field  502 

Telepathy    Lowell  306 

Thanatopsis    Bryant  36 

Thousand  and  Thirty-Seven,  The Halpine  389 

To  a  Maid  Demure Sill  473 

To   a   Waterfowl Bryant  39 

To    Eva Emerson  84 

To    Helen Poe  192 

To  One  in  Paradise Poe  177 

To  the  Portrait  of  "A  Lady" Holmes  199 

Two  Villages,  The Cooke  385 

Ulalume     Poe  188 

Under  the  Washington  Elm,  Cambridge Holmes  225 

Undiscovered    Country,    The Stedman  415 

Unmanifest    Destiny Hovey  543 

Unseen    Spirits Willis  89 

Village  Blacksmith,  The Longfellow  106 

Voiceless,    The Holmes  224 

Voice  of  the  Loyal  North,  A Holmes  228 

Voices  of  Unseen  Spirits Hovey  545 

Volunteer,    The Cutler  394 

Wander-Lovers,  The Hovey  536 

Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports,  The Longfellow  125 

Washers  of  the  Shroud,  The Lowell  282 

Watchers,  The Whittier  160 

Way  to   Arcady,  The Bunner  512 

Wed    Bunner  518 

What  the   Engines  Said Harte  465 


569 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


What  Mr.   Robinson  Thinks Lowell  268 

What    the    Birds    Said Whittier  166 

Widow's    Song,    The Pinkney  76 

Winter  Wish,  A Messinger  234 

Without  and  Within Lowell  304 

Without   and   Within Stoddard  367 

Woman's   Poem,   A Stoddard  372 

Woman's   Thought,   A Gilder  488 

World  Well  Lost,  The Stedman  416 


570] 


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